Legacies In Morrowind and Tamriellic Origins
by Leth
Summary: It's so old, it predates the Morrowind Column! Then again, who knew there was a Morrowind column? Haven't updated in 2 years, but you've still got to see!
1. The Girl

Up around that time, Kenil hadn't been doing much. Of course, if you asked him, he'd say just the opposite. The world, according to him, had been filled up twice with the blood of the infernal dragon, slayed by Kenil himself. And, according to him, he had already gone to see the palace and Vivec himself fawned over his mysterious yet utterly dominating powers. He had proclaimed vengeance on the almighty Melhoon Dragoon (again, purely according to him), and had coupled with (and saved) many mistresses of the awed Emperor Septim. Then, he was granted Lord of the Western Provinces, Lord of the high elves, Lord of the dead, Lord of all magicka and pretty women. He was a precocious child (on some level). But then, a girl named Sierra dropped in, and things miraculously changed…

- Melvin III, scribbling beside Lake Tulsa

It rained the day the girl whispered a peep. The sick child hadn't eaten for two days. If there were a person they could ask for help, they couldn't find one. A day ago, Granther had made a trip to the local Omanis but can back empty handed. Granther simply said there was a really bad case of blight in the area, and the Omanis would see anyone until the Ash-Chancre had subsided, not even the local milk boy.  
So when the girl woke up blushing red, Arcata and Granther were much relieved. When she did wake up, it was through a series of soft coughs. Arcata was already there with soup to welcome her and ask questions about her origin. Seconds later, the rest of the family stood around Uncle Gul's bed with bad enough curiosity to eat her. The girl was black eyed and had pout lips, or so Kenil noticed himself staring.

The conversation followed: Where are you from? Her mouth opened but her eyes went blank, as if remembering a distant dream. She whispered in a shallow voice, but her words didn't least open any holes in the mystic cloak: I don't know.

What is your name?

I don't know.

That led to the end of the clueless dialogue. Arcata kept by her side all the time a cup of warm Cranberry tea, native to the region, while Granther remained dispassionate about the girl in question. It was Kenil, who peeked through the hospitality of Arcata, and the inundating curiosity of Uncle Gul, and saw for his first time a child of the female gender. Little did he show his great curiosity, and the reaction he was overwhelmed by, one might have supposed it was an inevitable outcome given his first encounter with someone of the opposite sex other than his mother.

Even weeks later, her originality remained still a mystery. But there was no hurry, at least. A week had passed smoothly without any trouble and her paleness had all but gone except, maybe she had a loss of words occasionally. On one odd occasion when she remembered something, prior she'd be enclosed and her face would resent a blank appearance, as if finally searching that lost treasure. But the good thing was she had in fact regained some memory; for one, she remembered her name was Sierra, like a mountain in Molag Mar. To Kenil, her name was a musical note, song by the sweet voice a great vocalist. They had, at first, thought about a trip to Vivec, maybe to report on the incident, but it turned out that the local Omani's hadn't planned a trip to Vivec in over a year, and worse yet, there were talks about bandits lurking in caves along the way. And so, the family decided to wait until that time came.

As the weeks passed, Kenil noticed something about the girl, who had now situated herself very well into the household. (No doubt he's been paying quite a lot of attention to her by then.) That on nights where the rain pounded on the ceiling of the farmhouse, he could hear the girl's mumbles in the darkness.

He questioned her one time, which she didn't know what to say; she did not remember her dreams at all. He replied that he remembered his dreams, many of them. With daedra and phantoms and ghostly apparitions.

Really? She said.

They were usually outside during the dark, especially when it was raining.

She glanced outside, it's raining now, she said. Then laughed; are you afraid of 'ghosts' out there, now? Right now?

To her, it must have been an odd thing, to be afraid of something that doesn't even exist right outside of your own home.

Kenil nodded, he told her he had thought she was daedra ready to close around him the day when he tripped on her.

On impulse perhaps, the girl stood up from her usual deadlocked pose, and calmly walked to the door. I don't see anything, she said.

That's because they only come when you're outside. He replied.

Then, she turned her head, her perfect dumner head around, peering with her comforting eyes, a smile Kenil will remember forever. A smirk, actually. Let's go and see!

Kenil didn't know what made him do it then. The only time he found himself outside when it was pitch black and raining had been times when he fell asleep. He told himself many times after those occasions never to do it again, yet it just never seemed to stick. Don't know, maybe it's the smell of the crops, he explained to himself. But never had he ever gone outside when it was dark. He was very reluctant to do it, even when Arcata said she'd spank the little dumpling if he didn't go get her a tool. But as for today, he somehow managed the courage. They ran from the door, before Arcata or Granther or even Uncle Gul could scream and shout for them to come back.

Outside, the sun had run away long ago, leaving the sky a strange dark purple. Darkness crept slowly up Kenil, as he warily followed Sierra, away from the farmhouse, the warm sanctuary.

I can't wait to see the evil spirits! Hissed Sierra, taunting him innocently.

They only come out when you're an alone. He breathed.

Fine then! She ran into the crop field, leaving Kenil an awkward sensation of being lost.

Come back! He cried out.

Her reply resounded from far away, tell me when you see a daedra!

Alone, he glimpsed at the night sky. From here, it wasn't that entirely frightening. Except in a little way it was. Several moments later, after he had tried to follow her voice to no avail, he cried, I see one! I see one!

And out popped Sierra hidden posse of crops extremely close, almost touching him.

Kenil screamed and ran; he had not intended to see anything at all. Sierra giggled behind him in that small squeaky elfish voice. Looking back, dumbfounded, and then he realized, from that moment on, that he had lost all previously held fears of the darkness. Whatever fear he had within him was suddenly gone. All those times he questioned himself as to how he would survive one day when he grew older and he was still afraid of the dark dissipated in the darkness by this charming girl who scared the cork berries out of him.

They played hide and seek in the dark with only their voices in the wind, and giggled and laughed until the shouts from the farmhouse threatened them back.

On another summer day, when the sounds of great planes mimicked past and the wind passed through, told only by the trees as they swayed hither to, while the sun was still up and the wind was still carrying the fresh breeze of old summer mornings, a knock sounded from the wooden plank serving as a farmhouse's door. They were no riches, as it was for every farmer, the farm despite was a place, a home; as long as the soil was fertile, corkbulb trees grew abundant and ash yams didn't wither away and die, a home was good enough.

Sierra and Kenil happened to be setting themselves a new board of Kunpaf when it did sound. They both ventured to unlock the door, and in front of Kenil a face familiar materialized.

Hello, Master Omani!" Welcomed Arcata. Granther was not far behind her smiling. If there was anything that could make Granther smile besides Uncle Gul on those very very rare occasions, it was Mafias Omani, a tall man who could have become an inodori candidate were it not for his injured arm during a childhood incident. Omani smiled, eyes partially glancing at Sierra with surprise.

"How goes the arm?" Said Granther.

"Oh, fine, fine. It still sores when it rains."

Arcata welcomed him in, just as Uncle Gul gave him a big hug with a large inflated smile.

"Why Hello there!" Cried Mafias Omani in half-pain.

"Yes, the rain does seem to pour more often now." Said Granther, again.

"Good for the crops." Replied Master Omani.

"And the netch?"

"Yes, they do need good light to grow." Said Omani, "I hope you don't mind me bringing them over. They've been twisting around the den waiting to see the sun for a while."

"They're here?" Cried Kenil, he loved the netch, they were fun and harmless. They seemed to be able to see benevolence when there was, and differentiate that from harm.

Arcata glanced at the netch pasting not far away, another good thing, perhaps it was a dependency on Mer, but they never moved far unless someone was there to graze them. "Why don't you play with the netch, dears? Go show them the netch Gul."

Kenil rejoiced, "Come on Siri! I'll show you!"

Sierra looked too, but wasn't entirely fascinated with the blue mushroom- like creatures. She followed the bolting Kenil out the door. Uncle Gul followed, too, but knowing there was little need for his service.

"How are the crops this year?" Said Granther.

"Nothing better, this year's been luckier than most. You don't get this much rain." Omani said.

"Yes, it's been raining for two days straight, and three days before that. The crops need rain, but sun's good as well." Said Arcata sitting by a chair next to the window overlooking the netch and Kenil's waving arms of glee. The girl was pacing closer to the netch, curious, but cautious, too.

"Who's the girl?" Blurted Omani.

Arcata glanced away from the window, "You know, the funniest thing happened. A couple of weeks earlier." And she retold Sierra's mysterious appearance.

Master Omani had eyes wide open by the end of the story, couldn't believe his eyes but the utter chance of it all. "If I had a girl drop on my farm, maybe I'd finally find me a wife." He said.  
Granther laughed.

"Do you suppose its any daedric doing?"

"Of all the gods! You'd think we'd be lucky enough to have a present sent to us without the daedric intervening!"

"I've heard stories," said Omani, "about daedric gods sending their own children to the mortal realm, and letting them feast on all the farmers."

Arcata's eyes were open wide, but then closed taut shut. Her face and Granther's face erupted in laughter.

When things quieted down, Arcata voiced, "Surely, if there's a chance that she might be a daedra, there's also a chance she's an aedra!"

"True," said Granther, "the rain has been frequent these past weeks. Perhaps its her." And then it all collapsed.


	2. The Netch

Then they laughed some more. Outside, the children played exhilaratingly with the flamboyant netch. They hopped and jumped to pull on the netchs' tendrils, while the netch teased them willingly.  
  
The weeks passed and the summer became fall. The rain has rarely ever been so frequent, Arcata remembered several times in her childhood when it had. Back in Vivec, though. They went to catch some fish sometimes, because the unusual rain made unusually good fishing. A week after the first snowfall on the plains, Uncle Gul took Kenil and her hunting since any work on the crops that could be done was done. Arcata accompanied first, weary that she might fall at one point like a remnant of the distant night not so long ago.  
  
The snow fell even more that year than it usually had. When it became spring again, the family had already grown warmhearted of the newcomer, to the point of where they took her as their own child.  
  
Then, one time when Master Omani came for a call, and brought his netch along, and Kenil and Sierra were with the netch with Uncle Gul alongside, Arcata spoke to Master Omani about the very unusual weather. Master Omani was complaining about his netch being denied of sunlight. It was agitating his herds, now most were skinnier than usual.  
  
Suddenly, a shriek came from the door, then Uncle Gul's voice with a large bang. The door opened, and in came Uncle Gul carrying Sierra once more, as before. Sierra's arms were wrought with what appeared as whip wounds. Tendrils, the netch. Kenil tailed behind them with a horrifying face. He, too, had wounds but less serious. Uncle Gul on the other hand, had slash marks on his back, and one very close to his neck.  
  
"Oh Alymsivi!" Cried Arcata, "The netch! I had been watching!"  
  
Granther noticed the netch, now looking like little dots on the far plain. His attention returned to Sierra and Kenil and Uncle Gul. Sierra was moaning, and Kenil was shouting, "I never want to see the netch, again! Never!"  
  
The adults examined the cuts, and out came a cry from Arcata. Sierra's neck had been slashed, and blood was gathering all over.  
  
For the next few days, the weather poured. Arcata began to truly think something about the clouds was connected with Sierra, perhaps she was a daedra, or an aedra, then she shook her head. It was all a coincidence. But how did the netch become violent? She knew that animals could sense things that no being, Men or Mer, could. What if they sensed something horrible in Sierra? And were afraid? This she had gone all over with Granther and Muthera Omani. Omani was bedazzled, stating that never had the netch reacted this badly.  
  
Years later, when Kenil remembered those days when they prayed to the gods for they then thought she might die, he also remembered the rain as it poured more than ever before. Like a flood. It was as if the gods themselves were angry at such an injury. But amazingly, the neck wound healed, and her cheeks were full of flush a week later. Of course, later his mother on her deathbed told him of the entire story, about his father. His father had once been one of those outlaws who happened to sneak near the regions around Pelagiad and Balmora at the right time and place. His profession, as it was called, was to commit crime. He was a bandit. He stole things from adventurers, who trespassed his brigand's 'territory', sometimes even resorting to killing, or kidnapping if it was deemed more profitable. One time, his band had found a caravan sending Hiaalu servants and treasury from Balmora to Vivec. Arcata had been on that trip, for she had just recently finished her learning with a well-known mistress in a manor at Balmora. At that time, the Band had planned for months for the caravan to pass. When it finally did, the band attacked. The guards were decapitated, and as it turned out, there were no treasure, no rare weapons, no valued ornaments, no diamonds or rubies or gems, nothing. Nothing except a young woman dressed up pretty as if marriage was planned out for her. It turned out it was, because the woman wouldn't stop repeating to herself her dumb luck and the disgrace it all would look on her family especially her house if her marriage were halted because of this, which she pleaded for them to led her go.  
  
Frustrated for the lack of everything except the woman, the bandleader noticed the potential value of the situation. Considering how the woman were to be a bride and certainly that was of some significant value. Thus, the idea of ransom entered the brigand's mindset. Over the following days, Granther was told to guard her at all costs, while the rest of the band went on the search for other unfortunate travelers. Several times, she was nearly raped, but due to Granther she was not. Granther, too, was not just protective, but was also kind to her. He had sympathy for her, who was dressed in the prettiest of all gowns.  
  
As the days passed and Granther 'the thug' as she initially referred to him became Granther the Guard, to Granther's bewilderment, and to her fortune, he had sudden fallen in love (or in lust which eventually turned into love) with her. It was ironic then, here she was, fully clad up for an honorable wedding, prepared as the best mistress by the very best, yet suddenly, too, falling in love with the dirtiest of all men, an outlaw, not a smuggler but a thug. It was a most romantic thing, and the most advantageous thing that could have occurred for Arcata.  
  
One day as the two spoke to each in that daring way all new lovers spoke, a crash was heard from the bandit's camp, and at last, Hiaalu guards encircled Arcata and Granther. Granther was put up for beheading, but Arcata pleaded for his release, and eventually that was so. But all her title and lands and prospect of a decent marriage within high society were lost. And that is why, even today, Granther and Arcata live together on a poor farm out of society's eye.  
  
Kenil watched the netch being gathered again by Master Omani. "The netch are peaceful animals," master Omani had said, "it's very rare to see it do anything worth attention. You simply watch it graze, and when the time comes for mating, make sure you get the bull netch over and let them mate. There's nothing to it. Just don't poke them hard and they won't hurt you."  
  
By now, the clouds were up high again and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The netch were at their usual temper now, no longer startling with their tendrils whipping every which way. Kenil was scared then. But now that he saw the netch, again, he feared them no more. How did it happen? He would never know. Sierra hadn't done anything wrong and Uncle Gul was standing not far away, and he had been jumping up to grab one of their vines, which Kenil did all the time and nothing happened then.  
  
Kenil looked sideways at the bed on the far side where Sierra was laid out half asleep. The Omani doctor had come and stayed with them for most of the day, then he just said, "There's nothing I can do here." And he returned back to the manor, which he came. The blood was no longer flowing in rivulets, and Sierra, for the moment seemed peaceful with his mother by her side. The sun, if one could see it, by now would be near the horizon, over the vast plains and trees. They lived mostly inland. The beach was very far and it took a long time walking to get there. But when they did it was fun to play in the sand with someone other than himself. He worried that they might never do such things again. Over the year he and Sierra shared much fun together, and upon much doubt, he truly wished, pondered even, that when he grew up.  
  
Sierra began to moan, again. Kenil lost all track of thought and ran towards Sierra lying on the bed. Granther came, and stayed a while, but nevertheless he went back outside to work in the fields, tending the crops. Granther didn't want to show much weakness, which is probably why he went away. Kenil remained by her bedside, hoping against all signs.  
  
Long into the night, she moaned. Her occasional shrieks frightened Kenil much, but he nevertheless held her hand tighter with each. It was happening all over again, except this time Kenil cared a deeper care. It began raining again outside. A great thunderstorm then followed. The thunder rocked the little farmhouse and the lightening probably split trees in half. If it were not for the rain, too, there might have been a fire somewhere out there.  
  
Kenil didn't sleep at all that night. He kept near Sierra and thought about those days when she was beside him. He remembered last season, when they had ran into the river nearby the farmhouse. Then they made a branch from the trees and stood by each other while they fished. Uncle Gul didn't like to supervise that much, he called it a dumb duty, and passed away the time instead by managing the crops. On that fall day, the trees were ready for the winter, shown by the leaves beginning to color. As little as Sierra would like to admit, she was a dark elf, and dark elves were lustful creatures, boys and girls alike. That day when they were fishing, she had smiled at him curiously. Kenil couldn't help wondering her small ears that bent upwards and pug nose, and a head full of that dark brown hair. Her chest, which had just recently begun to grow into that full feminine blossom, was just beginning to tip. In short, she was beautiful. "No wonder she's giving me a smile," smiled Kenil. He'd been groveling at her for a long time and hadn't noticed himself in the midst of her. 


	3. The Flood

Kenil remembered that day for it was first day when he kissed a girl. He remembered it because of the soft touch of her lips, with the fragrant smell that remained for along time afterwards. The day they had shared a kiss, and it was one kiss to last for a lifetime. How long did a dark elf live? A thousand years if war, famine, and disease didn't kill them first. This kiss surely would be in their minds forever, for an eternity, a thousand years of life could be an eternity.  
  
Again, he looked back at Sierra, now moaning and groaning on her bed, with a skin wrapped around her neck wound. Please don't go. Please don't leave, Siri.  
  
Late at night, he heard her moans even more. Was it him who made the netch go bad? Was it him who pulled a tendril too many? Kenil would never forgive himself if she . she, she died. It was like that day when he had first tripped on her, all over again.  
  
Overnight the rain poured, the wind blew the farmhouse right and left. Water began seeping in through the wooden door, not that it could hold anything out in the first place. The water began to fill on the inside, and when Granther opened the wooden door to look around, he saw water every direction. A flood, he warned. The rain kept on raining; it didn't seem to be stopping at all.  
  
Before long, the entire house was soaked in water. It wasn't built on that high of a foundation so it was nearly as level as the ground itself. No one ever expected a flood to come to this land, not to Morrowind. The most the place ever gotten to a real flood was when the water seeped through by the push of a wind, and only Arcata had sweeped away the water with a broom. By deep into the night, Sierra was moaning in a deep nightmare and so was the house as it became soaked. The water raised a finger higher.  
  
And a finger higher.  
  
And another finger.  
  
And then by an entire foot it rose.  
  
And Granther began to grow really worried, for the rain didn't seem to stop.  
  
When the water reached ankle deep, yes, ankle deep, something that amazed Kenil to this day, and the walls were really beginning to break, Granther told everyone to move to higher ground. It seemed the water had become dangerous.  
  
They moved out of the house with Granther carrying Sierra in his arms and Uncle Gul leading the way out. The water was so high that it was very hard to walk, and for a while Kenil thought it was deep enough for swimming. They moved slowly through the thundering storm onto a high hill far away. It was hard to move through that flood; furthermore, it was a long distance. Kenil tripped many times and fell into the water. Arcata held him close to give him support. Uncle Gul helped Granther carry Sierra up the hill. When they finally lost the water downhill, Kenil searched the horizon for their farmhouse. It was hard to see in the darkness and the rain. Suddenly, a lightning strike lighted the area, and they could see their farmhouse like a little dot. Kenil was tired after the long drenching path. After a while, they waited but the rain still did not stop. It would be a bad year. Their harvest this year would probably be doomed. And that meant. Suddenly Arcata shrieked a cry, and told everyone about the crops, and their food in storage. The water would soak them and the family might be hungry the entire year.  
  
Granther stiffened too, and so did Uncle Gul. If they didn't have food this year, what would they do? The flood might ruin the crops from last year, and everyone would go hungry and starve. Suddenly, the two adult mer went back to farmhouse, now waist level in water. Arcata didn't beg them to not go, they had to, it was food and if they didn't have it, who knew what they'd do?  
  
Kenil waited and waited for them to get back. He looked out at that dot far away, which could be seen occasionally when the lightning appeared. Sierra moaned quite a bit, the storm didn't stop at all during the period, in fact, to Kenil's dismay it got worse. Still, Kenil waited for the storm to stop and for Uncle Gul and his father to come back.  
  
By early dawn he was waiting still, now scared and shaking in the pouring rain. By now, the rain was lightening up a bit. By midmorning, the rain had all stopped except for an occasional scattered downpour, as if the gods in the sky wished to give one last ironic tribute to the ground. When Kenil began to realize what terrible thing might have happened, he became worried stiff and remained shaking still.  
  
And that horrifying fear was reinforced when by noontime they did not appear anywhere. Arcata cried on top of that high hill that day after the great flood. Kenil still hadn't completely grasped the meaning of it all but eventually he too cried with full nonstop tears.  
  
The Omani sage called Sierra's revival a miracle. But the floods were nothing short of a disaster. It uprooted all the crops. Farming was unusually stable in Morrowind compared to the rest of Tamriel. The rain never poured that much, and the corkbulb seedlings never needed that much water to begin with. The ash yams needed less still, except a decent soil to grow on. So their roots weren't adapted for long periods of flooding. Not many farmers kept in reserve their yearly crops. Most tried to sell as much as they can either on the market in Vivec or gave it to silk riders so they could sell it at Balmora, then with that money they'd purchase seedlings to expand their crops.  
  
And so when the flooding came, Farmers all around the peninsula knew their harvest for that year was nonexistent. No one expected such a thing to happen, ever. Dry seasons were never that long in Morrowind, and if it were, the corkbulb plant could easily survive a drought. But a flood! That was unexpected. Some kept in storage past harvests, and if they weren't ruined by the flood, then they were lucky. As for those who were greedy and sold all their crops the year they were harvested, the local Omanis furnished the region with food brought in from other parts of Morrowind, but with the entire seasonal upbringing gone, there was crying throughout the peninsula. The netch had little meat, for there had been little sunshine to grow their bluish skins. Even the usually red smidge on the top was now a dark purple, deprived of energy. The tendrils were weary, and some of the weaker netches couldn't fly. It was a bad time.  
  
Few farmers could manage their crops, and if it weren't for the local Omanis, they'd surely have starved.  
  
When news arrived that the Tribunal church from High Fane would come to the rescue, many farmers rejoiced. It was said that they'd provide sure habitation to those who would move to Vivec where they'd be fed at least until next year when planting season came around again, then they could rebuild their homes when they came back.  
  
For Kenil, it was a horrible time. For not only had his family lost their crops, they had lost two members. They found the bodies separated by over a horizon. Uncle Gul, the deceased, drifted over a far hill. Granther, Arcata had bent over his body and cried for days it seemed until Master Omani pulled her away, had been found even further down. It wasn't at all that hard to find a lump of dead flesh on the plains, perhaps it should have been more difficult. When Kenil was told he'd be moving to Vivec, which he had only heard in stories, he sat without reflex. One day, the family or the leftover remnants of a family decided there was nothing else to do but move to Vivec for the fall and winter seasons, or maybe even forever. Actually, Arcata's weak relent when the priestess came over from High Fane to persuade her made the real decision. From that day forward, Arcata never regressed to that pleasant time before the flood came. 


	4. Homeward Bound

The caravan moved speedily through the forests. Behind, Kenil and Sierra sat motionless against the rocking made by the wooden wheels banging against random rocks. The rarely traveled path had many carriage trails, recently made. The memory of the flood still reigns rampant in everyone's mind. The flood was what made these trails.  
  
Across the sturdy carriage Kenil could see his mother's slim, wretched figure, head in arms, bent in mournful assent. Kenil, too, cried much during the trip. Sierra sat upright, motionless still, with watery eyes catching the top skin of the carriage. By now, they couldn't help but think how a coincidence it must have been. Was there a connection between Sierra and the rainfall? It was too much to think about, especially now. But yes, they did think of it.  
  
Every once in a while they'd see small movement in the forests and Kenil would be reminded of rats back at the farm. Rats, they'd used to hunt them. It was fun, because as kids they were nimble and could move easily through the forest with all its trees and small branches that an adult would find difficult. They'd hunt them and kill them. Later, they'd cook them back in the house - or even outside at night, since Kenil was no longer afraid.  
  
--  
  
Kenil's first impression of Vivec was magnificent splendor and curious wonder. When he saw the high towering canteens, though, he was appalled. Never before had he seen such high structures, and large. The big looming gray shape of the Foreign Quarters cast a great shadow over the surrounding area. At first, Kenil was reluctant to walk on the platforms; in fear of them falling, heights it seemed along with darkness was one of his fears. But Sierra with all her curiosity and none of Kenil's inhibition, she went as far as the highest-level platform she could see. As she climbed the platforms, Kenil could see Sierra's small figure waving back after every so steps just to check. It did produce an effect on Kenil. At last, when she reached high up there on the highest level, with her small ant size form pressed against an even smaller railing, Kenil felt his inhibitions surrender and soon he, laughing joyously too, but more cautious though, was journeying up the Foreign Quarters. Sierra always had this affect on Kenil, she always seemed to prove successful in beguiling Kenil in following her to whatever location she deemed she would go, against all better judgment and sanctions. There were many such things Kenil hadn't experienced in Vivec, and over the years he would experience them all at one point or another, because of Sierra.  
  
But it appeared they had forgotten something very deep that should have stopped all the fun they had while exploring Vivec before it even began. Arcata behind was still suffering from the deaths of two of her loved ones. Kenil, too, for they had been the only male mer he had seen in his life, with exception to Master Omani. And so, the family mostly cried and grieved during those first days in Vivec, little fun the children had was prevented by Arcata who reminded them of the flood.  
  
And when finally things became better, the clouds drew rain. Heavy rain.  
  
It seemed the rains wouldn't stop this side of the Ascadian Isles. Vivec, sublime in its magnificence, was showered by water, its cantons pounded constantly from all sides. Ever since the death of her loved ones, a brother and a husband, Arcata never was the same loving, caring mother she once used to. Instead, she became more of a wrench, an ingrate. There were many like her in the streets of St. Olms, where the Sierra and Kenil lived. The first days were spent being accustomed to the suburban life in Vivec. The city was every bit as Kenil imagined it, so much to his tasteful imagination that he felt guilty for enjoying it when he knew his uncle and father had died not long ago. He had suffered as any child dumpling suffers when they loose those who they cared the most. Yet, it was still hard to imagine a place, much less a city in itself than a great complex of cities, and within the confinements of roof altogether. One could see out into the dark ceiling at times and wondered if it were really there and not just sky. But it was, for at nights when it they heard raining no water poured down.  
  
As for Arcata, after experiencing the rain again, even under the safety of the room, she began to question, really question those around her. Namely, Sierra. Once, she had given that thought little attention, believing the little elven girl had been left over by some mysterious but nevertheless harmless people who simply did not wish her any longer. But the flood changed everything. Her suspicious were put to a momentary stop while she was mourning, but when it began to shower in Vivec, she relapsed. Now, in the deep recesses of her mind, she succumbed to believing Sierra had in fact altered the weather. And in an even deeper recess, she believed Sierra wished her husband and brother dead. She believed Sierra was a devil. Perhaps it was a sublimation of the real truth, the real guilt, and she wanted to put blame elsewhere. The real guilt was her own screams when she suddenly remembered upon that tall hill not long ago, about how the foods of last year would be spoiled by the flood. That had led directly to the deaths of her loved ones. But she would not accept that consciously, except in her unconscious she accepted that, too. Her confusion led her to put blame on Sierra, which was why even years later, when Sierra became a lovely young elven maiden, who attracted young men lustfully, the same girl who would later make young men jealous of Kenil's luck, making them wish upon wishes that she'd give them just a little bit of her attention, a chance which she never gave because in her mind she would forever remember the day when she had kissed Kenil and the memory of the days before then when she and Kenil had played in the darkness outside the farmhouse remained in her mind all time - even then, Arcata would never look at her with the same two motherly eyes again.  
  
The crowds never seemed to dull in Vivec. Always there was people, Men, Mer, and some Alkaviri and the occasional orc. There were, too, cats of all forms and sizes. The money promised them stopped flowing, for at some point a collection of treasury contracts between the Great Houses broke. And as for the church in High Fane, charity for the widows and children of the deceased stopped flowing at some point years later, but by then the children (no longer children) no longer needed to worry, they had already well established themselves into society.  
  
Life was fine for the growing children. Arcata, although very unhappy, did not enter a stage where her mind was possessed like a demon until later. There was food on the table, just enough to keep each from going hungry and to send the two children to schooling. Kenil went to study at the seminary in St. Olms church, where many of the willing lower class boys went to, if one couldn't afford an education at a more prosperous place like High Fane. There, he learned many things bequeathed to train a priest, like the Tribunes and Vivec, and the Daedra, Aedra, many of which he already knew from the stories from a better time. He also learned the innumerable hymns of Saint Olms, which was versed very eloquently for his crude ears. Sierra's case was very much the same, although she progressed much quicker.  
  
--  
  
The day was bright. Well, as bright as it could get within the confinements of a roof. Vivec is an odd place for sure. It had taken many generations to construct one Canteen, then many generations more to build a second, then a third, and so on. The only place that wasn't built within the period of many years was the Ministry of Truth, which Vivec constructed himself out of a mountain. Kenil had deep desire to know more about the Ministry of Truth, he wanted to explore it against all the fears that he had. Sierra was more interested in its levitation enchantments. How, she asked one day in the school she and Kenil attended, how can a mountain stay afloat?  
  
By the will of our god, all the children replied accusingly.  
  
On that day, she became labeled as an idiot. It wasn't the fact that she knew all the questions, but the awkward manners in which she gave her answers and the wayward questions that no one could understand why she asked made her such a questionable student. It is a universal fact that when children, perhaps adults too, when they do not understand; they, instead of venturing forth to probe the question, began to doubt the originator of it.  
  
For the first weeks in The St. Olms Seminary of the Gods, Kenil was Sierra's sole friend. When they walked alone along the busy halls, they could hear shouting, as if they were outlanders from far away, even outlanders were not treated like this. Sierra kept silent, but Kenil at least tried to defend the teasing words. It was to no avail, for the words spread throughout the school that Sierra was complete nonsense. Sometimes, at home, she'd be all quiet, but then erupt in her fiery way against jesting kids that would never hear her from home. It seemed she, not Kenil astonishingly, because of the insults, had brought forth a shy personality in front of her peers.  
  
One day, the rain never forgotten, the two children jotted along with Arcata to Hiaalu Canteen. It was rather far, almost on the other side of Vivec. They had thought about taking the waterway, but they had little money to spend, at least until Arcata finds employment. Hiaalu, as she recalled, had once been her great home. She remembered the days, as well as the canteen itself, when she ventured here and there as a noble's child. Then, on the eve of her wedding, she lost all possessions but found something much greater, true love. Now that that love was gone, she once again seeked her home, it wasn't a question of whether she wished to return, but whether her own house will accept her.  
  
They trotted along, Sierra ran ahead of them, she was a very athletic child, she did well at most things, except when it came to speaking amongst her peers, Kenil's laughing pants of "Siri, stop!" droned behind. It had rained for a while, but on this morning it had finally stopped. The streets were still wet though, and Sierra's fast unwary running seemed dangerous. When they reached the bridge, suddenly she slipped, but regained her balance, almost, then slipped again. She had been at such high speeds that her momentum propelled her towards the railing, and full body slipped under it.  
  
Sierra bellowed through her lungs as her hands caught one of the vertical wooden planks. Down below was the sea, gray with small waves meandering here and there like lines, too small. Arcata was the nearest, for Kenil had already crossed the bridge and was looking back puzzled in search of Sierra, whose arms tangled around the wooden plank.  
  
Arcata didn't move. In that split second, it was as if all eternity had focused within that small frame, and Arcata stationary figure dwell on Sierra's mind. Sierra's face was taut, and her arms were struggling around the plank. Yet still, Arcata stone face glowered at Sierra, and for a moment she remembered all the hate against the little girl. She still didn't move. as if by the stare she meant to say:  
  
You should die you devil! You should drown in the water just as you drowned my husband and my brother. I'm not going to help you. Die you monstrosity. You should die for having so much joy when I feel so much pain!  
  
"Siri!" Cried Kenil, his eyes now transfixed on the arms and elven head, such was her danger that her body was no longer in sight; it was dragging her downwards for a plunge into the Inner Sea.  
  
"Siri!"  
  
Arcata jittered from her rest, and finally her frozen frame came forward. She moved forward and tentatively - reluctantly slid a hand for Sierra to grab. As she was pulled up, Sierra's look in her eyes told Arcata things would forever change, nothing would be the same now. 


	5. A Fire Pebble in the Sky

Sierra and Kenil were walking down the halls of the seminary one day,  
  
"Hey farmer!" Said a voice.  
  
Both Sierra and Kenil were laughed at for being farmers, unlike the 'city- dwellers' of St. Olms. Kenil looked back in hate, it was Boreal Alders, a fat dumner who desired a target in which he can forever lay his insults on. In other words, a bully.  
  
"Dumb farmer!"  
  
Kenil didn't like these kids who called them dumb. It was wrong, pure and simple. But what was worse, wasn't the fact that these kids often joked and called them names behind their backs, but that other kids followed, that they tried to be the same bully Boreal was. That was what made it worse.  
  
"Hey, dumb farmer! Look at them, two farmers side by side. The dumb go together!"  
  
It was good to have a friend, thought Kenil. He glanced at his side, and saw Sierra. It was good to have a person to share your thoughts and feelings with. Sierra glanced back with the same face. He felt, he felt sad, sad. Sad how the world was unfair; that even though his father and uncle had died the world was treating them like this. Sierra felt the same way, too. Then. something happened that Kenil would think only happened once in a lifetime, and only with a person he cared most about. Suddenly, Kenil could feel his hands pressed against Sierra's warm palm. It suddenly struck Kenil that Sierra had the same feelings deep inside. Both were aware of each other's thoughts somehow, like they were connected through telepathy. Her warm palm drew an odd sensation within him, something that he hadn't experience since that time at the river when they went fishing and they had kissed.  
  
It was. it came from inside his heart. Like magic, Kenil smiled. He looked at Sierra's complexion and felt her pulling his hands very close to her body at the same time he was pulling her hands to his. It was a lovely struggle, like a tug-of-war with only two people and no rope. And when people did that, they usually ended up intentionally standing very close. So close that both nearly upset each other's balance. Kenil somehow fell forward.  
  
Sierra somehow managed to keep her balance and through that, held his. A smile came up on Kenil's face while he looked down at the floor. Sierra's face was much the same, he noted, because of the way her hands felt when she laughed. She was so close to him that as he stood back up, her breath fell on the back of his neck. A tingling sensation bristled his skin, and it felt -  
  
It feels so good.  
  
Like a reassurance; Like a 'I've got your back, and you've got mine.' That type of assurance. Kenil was much awed by the friendship they had, so much that he forgot all about the insults and laughter and teasing, especially the "Oh look! Dumb farmers marry dumb farmers!" Why? Because as long as Sierra is here, everything's okay.  
  
Everything's okay. As long as you're by my side, Siri, then everything will be just fine and we won't have to worry about what to do or how we'll live without Granther or Uncle Gul. I won't have to worry about mother anymore now that you'll be behind me forever.  
  
He felt warm and cuddly inside.  
  
--  
  
Like all schools, the seminary had days of examination. They tested the children on that they should have learned the past weeks, and with no miracle, Sierra came out on top. In fact, she knew all the hymns and verses and poetic recants and history of the tribunal and so forth. All was silent after the news spread, and all the insults appeared as to have retracted. The news spread like wildfire. Her already notoriety turned into astonishingly (sometimes exaggerated) fame. The students began to listen to her questions, which she could now ask without further reprimand.  
  
In school, Kenil found an unlikely passion. It happened when the Father Priest, a stoic elderly man who rarely ever showed emotions, handed out a small printed paper with scribbles and lines and what appeared to be a flat piece of. mutton. Thought Kenil. It appeared to look like mutton, because although it was circled by land, Cyrodil was of a different color. At first, Kenil didn't know what to make of it until he was told that what he saw was a map of Tamriel, and the brownish coloring mutton was Cyrodil, the capital city of the empire.  
  
The father priest, although every stoic, failed to hid his distain for Cyrodil. Somewhere along his usually long dictations, Kenil could sense an odd unpleasantness whenever the Father mentioned Cyrodil in his texts. He had to, of course, it was mandated that he must teach about the imperial capital lest he be reprimanded. He made this information aware to many of the children as if to say he would not have taught it if he were in control.  
  
Kenil did have this same dislike of Cyrodil. Cyrodil to him was like a central nub, a control center. This one fact had more appeal to him than another information about imperial culture. He became deeply interested as the father Priest spoke of this place, even in his contemptuous tong. Cyrodil. Kenil murmured. Cyrodil is where the paper is printed. Cyrodil is where all things are made. Cyrodil. Cyrodil controls all. Kenil became so deeply engraved with the imperial capital that inside, he truly desired to find out much about the great land for himself. He wanted to venture forth, away from his native Morrowind, to that place where all decisions are made and where history is written.  
  
But Kenil feared showing too much affection for such a distant place. Like teacher, the students followed Father Priest's condescending remarks, so that they were also slightly weary whenever the subject of Cyrodil came up. They, too, knew they had to learn it, as a rule, all the more furthering their dislike of Cyrodil and that jesting term outlander, which Kenil and Sierra had initially been treated like upon first entering the seminary.  
  
Sierra on the other hand, didn't desire as much for Cyrodil - as much as she desired to become a true priestess. Perhaps, she voiced once to Kenil while the other kids were away so they would not become jested, I will be first female Archmagister.  
  
Kenil smiled back, knowing that with Sierra, it just might be true. Sierra was a good student, a great student to be exact. She could dictate verses of any subject without effort it seemed to Kenil. So well that at times, Kenil found it hard to keep up with her didactic recants of verses of books full of theology. Her pace was faster. On occasions, she felt there was nothing in the world of church teachings that she could not conquer. Her instincts on the other hand were a different matter. She was a dark elf, given to frequent bouts of sexual aggression and, for her case, at best, attempts to suppress the given instincts given to her by her birth. The sexual aggression she turned on Kenil, who accepted it willingly. The other matter, a truly destructive passion, was indigenous only for her. It was the desire for practicing pyrotechnics. There were those who are born with less of their instincts, and there were those, much unique like Sierra, who had them throbbing in their veins.  
  
One day, the flames arched forward as Sierra controlled them with all her might and will. It was dark and the first occasion where the sun had popped up in a long time but eventually gave away to the purplish sky; people crowded the bridges and the archways of Vivec that day to see the sunrise and set. The children ran from bridge to bridge, over the calm water. The adults, afraid of children 'accidentally' getting too near the edge and slipping over the border into the sea down down below, baffled themselves with jokes amidst the serenade of music. As the day passed, Kenil and Sierra eventually found a walkway up to the roof of the cantons, where a couple of stands were put up but were not too crowded. A scenic place, one could see as far as the eastern horizon with its mists could allow. A long strip of land marking the peninsula appeared in view whereas down below on the lower platforms one could not see such an inky line.  
  
In the night, Sierra let her instincts go, and after they found a secluded place to make love, Sierra create a fire of enormous size hovering over their heads. The sky was dark; the fire made it darker in comparison. Kenil was not surprised by this ability. He could make a small fireball himself, but not such a big orderly spurt with such continuity. That he knew Sierra could do, her intelligence and sheer will beamed over all other students in the school in St. Olms Canton, proven.  
  
As they grew older, the couple met many times up there even while it rained. They told each other jokes about the school day, and sought each other for refuge when times were bad. Kenil had heart for his mother, but after years of pessimistic grouching, he became less of an optimist for his mother - and more indifferent as each day passed. The older boys in the school kept their eyes on Sierra, even when they knew she would be forever taken. Some tried to challenge Kenil to a match of magic or whatnot, but having a friend like Sierra allowed one to beat each through their individual weaknesses. Not that Kenil wasn't too bright himself, he was. But he was also normal. Sierra, on the other hand, was not.  
  
At the last time they met, after yet another passionate serenade of love, Sierra whispered that she'd be leaving for a greater place to study.  
  
High Fane. Those words resounded in Kenil's head. She was well off in intellect to balance any amount of drakes she'd need that only rich children had so they could attend.  
  
Kenil kept to himself, for he truly wished to say no, but a 'no' would have given her pain, for she truly desired to go.  
  
If only she wasn't so good, or if she wasn't so enthusiastic, then she'd stay with me. Thought Kenil, then he regretted he had said that because it was a selfish thing to think. She was good, gifted-good, and she would excel at any place she went. If only, Kenil thought, if only I were equally great, then I could follow her. But he wasn't. And Kenil feared he never would be. But there were other things Kenil wanted to do. And he supposed it was about time for them to split, even if they were fond lovers. Kenil wished to visit Cyrodil, that place of infinite charisma, and perhaps to become a cleric there while attending the sick. He knew enough about the elven body to understand which disease was which, and the differences between the two races weren't that different once one knew one of them. And so, Kenil yielded, smiling, but had already begun missing her inside.  
  
Sierra gave him a kiss, and then relentless grabbed him by the mouth and squeezed herself onto him. They made love a second time.  
  
After Kenil bade her goodbye, he wondered when he might see her again. Maybe, when she made Archmagister? Or a great canon? Or stood on the palace with Vivec greeting her? His dreams, he thought. Those were his dreams. They were impossible dreams, true. And now she was more close to them than he might ever become. He wished the best of luck to her. Little did they know, the next the two lovers saw each other would not appear in anyway the same as in their dreams. Kenil was about to leave for Cyrodil, the capital city, with all the best wishes of his education - while Sierra, was about to leave for High Fane. Although it was not far away, not far at all by any comparison, it was the closest thing, perhaps, to the Devil's Eye. 


	6. The Dark

Sivath was always an avid admirer of weaponry. Long blades, short blades, anything sharp and style. But his favorites were short blades: small, sharp and discreet. One of these was made of glass, such as the one he carried now. The glass themselves were melded by the greatest armorers of the land, glassblowers they were called. These were agile and light with all the admired qualities a tough conspicuous guard might take for granted but a surreptitious assassin took as his companion. The blade's inner features gleamed in his hands. The blade reflected small amounts of light that happened to pass through the closed drapes of this very shadowy room. It was a magnificent blade, really, but he still preferred to use a different, more natural weapon. His conscious told him not to.  
  
His vision floundered through the dark room. To the north was a window, shut closed with drapes he had made sure of. The east side contained the door, with the opening to the north. And he was just south beneath the door, waiting. Footsteps. one pair sounded from afar but eventually led directly to the doorsteps. Sivath had long ago ended his train of thought to focus his direct attention on this duel vibration. The door swung open. The long vertical line where the door creaked open shot in a small thread like ray of light into the room. Sivath lingered out of the way without a sound. His breathing was to the minimal, and was carefully articulated so no ear could sense it. The footsteps continued into the room. Duh. Duh. Duh.  
  
Something about it reminded Sivath of a dead man's rattle. The footsteps were so slow, and for a moment, Sivath wondered if it suspected something. Or, was it simply a man without the urgencies of time? An old man who had long done his fair share to society and now just a hindrance? The door was left open while the dull steps went north, towards the windows, and the drapes. The fish took the bait.  
  
Now was the time!  
  
Sivath turned from a statue to a clawed animal. He pushed himself forward, shutting the door with his right ankle. The old dumner turned, too slow. Was he hoping to see the maid perhaps? By three quarters the glass blade had already been embedded into the neck, through the large air pipe with drooping skin associated with nearly all old men. The distant reply was a rattle, but not the death rattle since air was hindered, but a shorter, quieter sound. Just a huhhh. uhhh. That was it. Sivath helped the body linger and drop, avoiding the thud.  
  
He could feel the red blood drip down his hands, from the blade. He pointed his hands downward. Sivath felt the warmness of the liquid as it slid, leaving a trail off his hand. So much blood. Thought Sivath. Was he feeling guilt? No, impossible. Such a being like himself could not feel such inhibition. He wiped the blood on the victim's exquisite cloth. Then slid through the door.  
  
--  
  
"If the archmagister can produce a crow from thin air, can't he produce one with shiny legs? Or one with succulent breasts?" Replied again that strange someone.  
  
And so on the remarks went, with balefuls of laughter to accompany them. In an atmosphere as light as this, it was easy to get carried away and still remain anonymous. In fact, if you didn't clamor up and make an immense amount of noise, people would often think you were weary of suspicion.  
  
Whilst the noise in the room quieted, Tiber paid the wench a luxurious tip prior to draining his tankard, then set off to tap the stranger on the shoulder. The anonymous being signaled back quietly with a steady brow, and both adventured downstairs to a quieter (and more discreet) locality.  
  
For a while, they sat back; the man, clad in a dark dyed alit-skinned costume, seemingly relaxed, whilst Tiber drew himself for some unmasking. He resisted the temptation to reveal the small note he had found tucked below the doorway of his house in Hiaalu Canton (This is concerning your late loss), and to show it to the unknown man and demand an explanation for such a reticent meeting. They had placed themselves in the corner of the room. Directly in front of him, sat the unknown silhouette, watching the room and Tiber with his vigilant eyes.  
  
"Who are you? What do you want?"  
  
The man searched Tiber with his eyes, brows unchanged, "I am he who avenged the murderer of your father."  
  
Alas! Could it be true? Cried Tiber mordantly in his depths, was here a man whose vengeance matched his own? "You? You are the one whom returned my favor?"  
  
"Quite irrefutably am. You see, I have proof."  
  
"Hold on, before anything - your name."  
  
The assassin's eyes pierced his coldly, "Does the agents of the Morag Tong ever give out their own title? Fine!, perhaps this is one occasion possessing an exemption." The cool eyes did not waver, "I am Master Eno Hiaalu of the Morag Tong Guild." He unveiled a glass blade too small for one's sight. Several moments passed by before Tiber grew accustomed to the dim surroundings, and the greenish, translucent knife.  
  
Thunderstruck by the mysterious assassin's title, now revealed, "This is."  
  
The assassin gleamed at Tiber with beadlike eyes, "how can you not know? Can't you see the contour of the knife matches the same stain left on your father's cloth? Don't you remember image by image of the dead corpse that was your father?"  
  
Tiber said nothing.  
  
"Perhaps, it is only a burden limited to assassins." In no second's count, he quickly pushed it forward at Tiber's body. It was done with a professional elegance, a swift yet smooth precision that brought anxiety to the receptor of the object. Tiber showed reflex against the blade's movement by second nature, but the assassin's benevolent moves outpaced his own. The quick hand left it still, with no sound, placed askance from Tiber's tableside.  
  
So perilously close was the blade to Tiber's waist that any line of vision from any curious bystander could not have sighted it, its line of sight being hidden by Tiber's frame. "This?" Tiber gently, carefully touched the stained iron handle. "So you believe, this is the weapon readied by the man who killed my father?"  
  
The assassin's eyes showed affirmation. "The proof is there. If you do not believe me, take the knife to a loyal cleric and show him the blood upon the handle. Then show yours. They will confirm it."  
  
Tiber concentrated squeamishly at the weapon, then looked up at the assassin, "If the proof is true, what is it you wish of me?"  
  
"Your cooperation."  
  
"To what?"  
  
At this, he sat back resiliently, took in a deep breath. Either on incident, or on purpose, the move magnified his broad silhouette in the dark underground. He talked without moving his mouth, in a manner so low only Tiber could hear; yet in a voice so crisp and understandable - "The dark brotherhood has been under siege for the past seed. The manner it has been done proves yet to be a mystery." Announced the guild master of the Morag Tong. "It is by something so quick, slithering past my eyes even I cannot detect it. An assassin's power lies in his eyes, and his capacity for detecting even the smallest grain of detail, but this, this I cannot see."  
  
The secret dark brotherhood! Infiltrated!  
  
"With your father's killer dead, I know now that I only presumed before, the venerable Morag Tong has not only been penetrated, but whose security has been thoroughly compromised." The master assassin leaned forward, "Listen lad, I know all about you. Your marriage, your standing within the temple. I also know you have done nothing to avenge for your father's death, in which case you have been given an enormous opportunity to do so. There is not one murderer, but many. Death did not come to your father through one man, but through multiple beings. How can you live with knowledge of those who planned your father's death are still alive and breathing? Through only these can you find salvation and justice. Also, it is your job within the temple to achieve justice where there is none.  
  
Tiber waited.  
  
"I am here to acquisition the temple's help." Said Eno Hiaalu.  
  
It was too tremendous an event to be true. Tiber Curio found himself wanting to help, to assist the master assassin to dig harder. Almost immediately, he said "yes, I will."  
  
-- 


	7. High Fane

High Fane. There it was created by the hand of Vivec to enforce to law of Vivec. So strong it was that it had endured thousands of years of weather. The Archmagister waited along the great spires of High Fane to catch a glimpse of the coming storm. For years the church knew about the storm, it was destined to come. Told by the signs of the god-moons themselves. The Archmagister looked up. Yes, they were there. The god-moons, on a perfect path for a perfect alignment. The Archmagister knew that such an alignment was dangerous. Not once had a part of the world been exposed to such magic. Not one part had ever seen the likes of what was to come, on a power that is matchless in the history of Tamriel. No one should be given this magic, thought the Archmagister. It was dangerous for it was powerful, unstoppable, and absolute. And what was the old saying? Absolute power corrupts absolutely?  
  
The Archmagister could feel it. The waves of magic were slowly increasing throughout this part of the world, and worse yet, it was centered on Vivec. An eclipse of such type would eventually be felt throughout all Tamriel, but first, it had to permeate through here, where it'd be shaped. Three god- moons. Each behind the other, each magnifying the other's power. And so much power.  
  
Think of it. The archmagister had been taught by those before him.  
  
If the god-moons are that which gives Tamriel the magic it needs to sustain all life forms and terrestrial change, then what happen if - instead of evolving around Tamriel on a orbit which distributes magic equally through all lands - what if at some point, there is an ellipse? One moon behind the second, the second behind the third. Each power of each moon would be magnified through the power of the one that ellipses it. One point of Tamriel would succumb to great stress and magic beyond comprehension, while all other locations feel nothing, as if air had been cut off.  
  
Think of it. Think of it quick, for we fear such devastation is soon to come.  
  
Yes, a black storm was coming. The archmagister could feel its perturbations. Its waves outlined in magic could be sensed, an abhorrent feeling. A premonition. A foreboding, darkening feeling he felt. Yes, it was coming. So strong were its currents.  
  
Perhaps, as a horrifying thought ventured up his spine, perhaps it's already here?  
  
And then, he truly felt it. There was no rebelling against such a power. Soon, it would eventually enclose the world. Why fight? Why waste willpower against such an undefeatable opponent? Why push away the power of the enormous flail? Why try to tempt a futile quail? Why try to fight the power of a wintry hail; or blow against the flaps of the oncoming sail? There was no compromise with this deadly thing, a wondrous luscious powerful thing. Evil was coming, for sure.  
  
It's coming. A whisper.  
  
A blade slithered from somewhere in the deep shadows of Oblivion. The Archmagister lingered there, lithe, then from his eyes beamed an unholy red, not the normal red of a dark elf.  
  
He smiled. It had indeed come.  
  
--  
  
The looming spires of High Fane with their angular precision brought the mind forth an odd sense of mixing reality and fantasy. The church's colossal framework emerged over the horizon where Tiber Curio stood on an old fishing boat. The father Archmagister stood tall amidst the great statues. It was hard to see his face, for he was probably too far, and perhaps it was because his figure, tall and dark, were hidden by the marble's shadow. The entire frame of the Archmagister was transformed into a mild silhouette from this far away.  
  
As Tiber neared a ramp, he saw the Archmagister smiling. The face of the man showed great sincerity, no doubt because of the sure sign of agreement to come.  
  
An agreement between High Fane and the Morag Tong! Such a spectacle! Who would have known of such a beginning? Collaboration between the most deadly furtive force and the most holy power in all the land?  
  
"Hello, father." Said Tiber against the roaring wind. His priestly cloak flapped.  
  
The Archmagister gave a welcoming bow, then led the way towards the large structure that was High Fane. During the walk, Tiber noticed a slight difference in the gait of the father Archmagister. His walk seemed a little bit hurried, as if to get out of the rays of light. Tiber looked up and knew it wasn't too bright outside. The clouds encompassed Vivec, and the sun rarely beaming through and only for a small moment. Cloudy days like this were of no use to the children, the dumplings, of Vivec. The children need sunlight, it gave their skins that magnificent dark hue, without it they'd never grow healthy.  
  
The Archmagister led him to a penitent room, where he spoke, "Let us give proper conduct before we move on."  
  
Tiber bowed. It was proper. As he bent down to kneel against the altar, he spoke in a praying whisper for the sun to come, and for the good wishes of people of all ages. Then, he felt a slight awkwardness that something was wrong. He looked back and saw that the Archmagister had withheld his prayer. "Again?" He continued then, acknowledging the smile of the father but maintaining his good wishes for the people of Tamriel. After a second prayer, he noticed again that the Archmagister was simply standing there. And as he bent around, he felt the hand of the Archmagister palm against his shoulder in a fatherly way.  
  
A third prayer elapsed, but this time as he spoke, a jitter crept up to him. As he prayed, he felt the hand slowly but nevertheless loose its warmth, and felt instead its coldness against his shoulder. He felt the hand loose its flesh. The face behind him bent into a grotesque mess of skin and flesh. And he saw through the reflection of the prayer pool that the water was trembling. And suddenly he became to realize that there was another light emanating in the room, and this came from someone's eyes. He remained there, within the grasp of the Archmagister's solemn hand.  
  
He noticed that he was afraid, for his flesh was jumping at him from all sides. He trembled in dread. And there was that awkward feeling within his throat and stomach, and the back of his neck ached. And he couldn't break the spell. There was a slight jab in his throat, too - no. on his throat, but it didn't possess much magnitude for he felt no pain.  
  
He realized then that he was numb. Paralyzed. A spell had been cast forth onto him!  
  
Fear crept onto him like a spider. Slowly at first, but he soon felt it rustle throughout his whole body. A dim pain or pressure was on his forehead, like a vein thumping.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he could no longer see the hand of the Archmagister. He didn't know when it had retracted, for the numbness. There were fingers, many fingers tending him, spikes or so it seemed, needles passing along his numb flesh. He realized that there were things crawling him. or was there? And then his mind spiraled down into a vast chamber where no one could feel or touch or sense. It was neither sleep, nor awake, but somewhere between death and life, towards death. His eyes gazed no more, and he felt no pain except the pain of having no control.  
  
There are things worse than death. Tiber was about to enter them. 


	8. Vivec

Shadows moved back and forth. Shadows evolved around the deadly doom. In the greatness of the Vivec hall, created by Vivec himself in his days prior to becoming a god, a person sent forth a thundering flail. So strong was this wind that the air compacted and the water in the air was squeezed out, so that a mist seemingly appeared where there once was none. Tiber Curio, no relation to the chain of Emperors, walked slowly midst this mist, moving without movement. It seemed like he was possessed. He was not possessed, for in order to be possessed, a spirit needs to possess it. There was no extraneous entity.  
  
Tiber's soul was by itself, trying to break away an insuperable barrier. It was as if his soul had dipped into a pool and was trapped, it was as if its hands were banging against the reflective crust of the water, that pale layer that gives back your reflection so you see nothing of the soul trapped inside the water. It was as if. His soul was trapped in a place where oblivion is not, nor was the mortal realm, but as in Kenil's dream, he was sent to a realm in between.  
  
Yet it still remained in his body; trapped. Thus, his body was a dull, empty vessel made of only flesh and bones, his own flesh and bones an impermeable barrier.  
  
Tiber limped through the room of mists. He could feel the shocks sizzling through the air but it made no difference to him whether he died here or later, for - of course - he had no soul. He walked through the room without care.  
  
In front of him was a chasm wide enough to engulf the room. Tiber kneeled before the emerging figure within the chasm. He could hear something of a dark nature. A voice was sent from inner hell, a shadow twisted and turned upwards, slowly making its progress through the chasm, and into the mortal realm.  
  
--  
  
Vivec could feel the awesome power of the oncoming force. But, like the Archmagister, he could not ascertain where it was. Vivec - Vivec the god, Vivec the honorable, Vivec the leader of all Dumner - Vivec did not know where the force came! Was it possible? Surely, this was a sign by the daedric lords to hint of his incomplete form. For he was neither daedra nor aedra, a fake god, made by the Tools of Kregnac, forged by Kregnac himself, and he was no god. Now, the true gods devised a way to taunt him. Surely, this must be it. He could not see, yet, and that was enough to doubt his powers.  
  
What was happening? Vivec drew fear of this question, for he did not know. From where in Tamriel did this black cloud originate? Slowly, Vivec paced himself out of the altar in which he had stood in solace for centuries. Rarely did the peace of Morrowind demand his attention. The current government was satisfactory enough. Yes, Vivec could see the imperials speak amongst themselves to ascertain Morrowind's fate. He knew (he had known) what they'd say, what each individual soul and mind would come to think, and from all those small bits of information, he had been satisfied with what results they'd make. Now. now he felt mystery. There was no power left in his godly eyes that look everywhere at once yet remain nowhere.  
  
No power. No power.  
  
The words stung, even to a god it stung. Perhaps more so for a god than any mortal being. No power meant no immortality. No power meant no strength. It meant mortality. Perhaps, Vivec feared, he trembled - VIVEC TREMBLED? - when had it come to this point? He checked his senses. There were none. He checked his mind, it saw none. The gates to oblivion bolted before his eyes, limited to such degree were his eyes now, he could not see the daedra gods chanting amongst themselves. He knew nothing. Where was Molag Bal? Where was Marithea? Where was Methuen Dagon? He did not know.  
  
And abruptly, for the first time in ages, he was reminded of a memory, of a time when he had been a young chimer... he lost his footing on the altar - and fell.  
  
--  
  
The Black Shalk Cornerclub was one of the larger bars in Vivec. It hid between its walls sometimes one to fifty thieves, hundred even for those mischievous days. Who knew? They'd all attest they were innocent, anyway. Sometimes, it was the place where plots were plotted, strategy between dissident factions planned, the administrations of dark might and power lied between two chairs facing each split by a table between each. So large was the Black Shalk that it spanned three stories in Vivec, although none knew, the third led a secret passage way to the fourth. The Commona Tong resided in the club; enough to lead people astray. That is, people who were vulnerable to threats and abuses. Decent people never came here. Everyone else, however, was welcomed, provided one carried a frightening weapon and a "don't mess with me or I'll send you to a place worse than hell and rape the rest of your family while I do it" look. The DMWMOISYTPWTH look. A daedric slang had a pedestrian guessed.  
  
The looks on the bartenders' faces were all the same. This is a privileged bar. There are no rules except no vandalism. Brawling is acceptable if only one does not damage any tables or chairs. If you do, we will spill even more blood than that which you have wrought. Attack any of the bartenders and you will be punished, the inodori do not rule here, we do.  
  
And all things being equal, one might have thought they were god. And so they were.  
  
Rowan Raltha caught his fellow followers. Raising a cup, he gathered the faction within his long arms, which he then extended as a welcome. "Today is the day when all things end. And all things begin!"  
  
Cheers.  
  
"Today is the day when fire sprouts from the hell to burn all those who do not belong!"  
  
Cheers. Chants.  
  
And on and on he went with rhetorical nonsense that would have sent him to an asylum far away in a Telvanni tower if they'd accept him were it not for the listener's having the same thoughts in their heads. The time came for the perfect response to the cheer, as each participant raised a filled cup and junked it.  
  
In the club, if one could not jug a cup, then one was not worthy of the club. But little did they know, the people who drunk from the tankards, that inside each was a living lifeform - Porphyric Hemophilia.  
  
--  
  
The next day, Dracor saw through his patients what looked like street brawls, bar brawls, brawls just the same. Cuts, lacerations, great large swollen bruises. Dracor administered several tests on them, seeing that they were rather serious.  
  
One man, an Argonian with a swollen eye and blood on the skin, which looked horrible on that lathered hard bulbous skin, the blood seemed to trickle on the trenches of the bulbs, and it was hard to clean them, this Argonian said, or rather hissed, "Hurt me he did."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Bit me he did."  
  
This was astonishing, thought Dracor. Never had he had a case where an Argonian was bitten. It was hard to bite an Argonian, much less puncture its hard skin. Dracor took a little bit of the greenish blood and ran some alchemical tests on it to make sure he wasn't infested with some odd blight disease. just in case, you don't know where these Argonians have been. The water's full of stuff. Seeing nothing, he put it on a shelf to dry. Afterwards, he'd administer even more tests to be certain.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"The pathways . Black Shalk."  
  
"What were you doing there?"  
  
"None of your bissinisss - finish the wound, docthor."  
  
Dracor sighed. Argonian were like this. Traders, merchants, they liked to argue, to barter. When people spoke about how they didn't speak well, when they complained that they tried to tell this Argonian that it was fifty drakes not five, they did know that they had been tricked. Argonians spoke plenty, fluently, they only started hissing and mumbling things when they bartered, simply to irritate whomever they were bartering with and to give themselves a chance to procrastinate before they could think of something better to say. Then if that didn't work, they usually slithered their tong in that snakelike manner so near your eyes as if to make you cower back and scream, "Fine! Done deal. You happy?"  
  
Yes, Dracor had his shares of Argonians. The cats were the same. The orcs weren't good barterers to begin with, so you didn't have to worry about them ripping you off. You did have to worry about the fist they might drive into your face before they took whatever they needed.  
  
"It's done."  
  
"Thank you, doctherrr."  
  
Dracor watched as the Argonian walked in that weird Argonian gait until he disappeared. Thank the gods. He shook his head and moved to the next patient. A cat.  
  
The same thing. A cut. Bitten. Some crazy female kitten had bit him, and although he kind of enjoyed it, he did feel it was bad to have such a cut loose on his skin.  
  
Another blood sample. It was easier to wait until the blood dried to do his testing, but he did it anyway. It was good. "You're free to go."  
  
This time the cat ran away. Damn cats. No manners. Worse than the snakes. He moved to the next patient. Huge green feet, thick ankle, great green swollen chest with plenty of lacerations. And a nose ring. An orc. Dracor groaned. You'd think a touch brute like this would be strong enough to take a beating and not have to go to the local doctor.  
  
When had all these biting started? Dracor feared it, because it was similar to vampirism, except in vampirism one rarely got bit and got away with it. The people they said who bit them were harmless enough. Perhaps it was one of those new social initiation type things. People were daring each other more and more often now, maybe. Dracor pondered on that for a while before looking back at the blood samples.  
  
--  
  
Dracor sat near a female servant whose history has proved to be quite a flirter. She was dark skinned, a lovely red guard. But nevertheless, he held himself from all impulses to just grab her skirt, and if was a mighty short skirt for a nurse, and pull it down - rip it, the females like it when a doctor did that, it showed a sense of strength, which being a doctor one was predeemed as having all brains but no brawn. Knowledge and strength was tantamount in bringing beautiful women to the sack. The type of women who don't simply look for brute strength in an end to itself and a wide throat for drinking greef.  
  
Dracor looked at the tests, now dried. The color appeared different now, with all the stuff he added to it, it better. All sixteen of the tests came out. Each had blue dots, orange coagulated purple swills. Some of them were yellow - YELLOW?  
  
Suddenly, a thing struck him, which might have shocked another man into falling within the arms of the nearest cushion-breasted nurse. Yellow. The color yellow was a doomsday color. It usually meant another case of yellow to come. Very infectious, indeed.  
  
He looked up yellow in the book. And saw that it eventually led to case of Perihelia, vampirism. This was bad. He looked at each of the samples. Yes, each contained small drops of yellow. Maybe it was time to find the nearest high-skirted nurse and hit the sack before it was too late?  
  
--  
  
Times change. Once, when a vampirism outbreak had emerged from the shadows, it had been stopped with the help of inodori armor and persistent treatment and a lot of slaying. Now with houses in disorder and everyone saying everyone else was a filthy traitor not worthy of any decent consideration, little luck could be sought after when it came to exterminating another epidemic. The problem with vampirism is that it fed on evil itself. It purposely broke the rules in whatever disease rulebook there was. Unlike other virulent strains of diseases which transferred itself every which way depending where the masses go, and if you were infested you usually contained yourself, this disease didn't do any of that. If you had it, all the more that you don't report it. Furthermore, it gave you a desire to feed on others.  
  
All organisms, whether they are on the top or the bottom of the evolutionary scale, are always attempting to better their existence. One who has the best traits, live longer to reproduce, therefore the children have the same traits and they live longer to reproduce. Anything that has negative traits, are less probable to reproduce, being either that they have disadvantages that cause them to die, or disadvantages that make them less of a candidate of reproduction. We now know that those traits, which are favorable in the environment they are in, exist longer than those traits that are not suitable to the environment they are in.  
  
So what happens, if, there exists organisms that has traits that take advantage of all the functions of other organisms? Such as we humans take advantage of cattle, so, what happens if there exists traits of another organism that takes advantage of us? And what, by god, happens if this organism lives not by the same way we live, but by an entirely different way; made by different things. Existing solely to take advantage of us. What happens if its values are different, its existence is different, and what happens, if this organism's manner of obtaining pleasure and improving its state of existence is by directly inflicting pain? What happens if this evil thing cannot be stopped, ever, and it continues to eat away like a parasite on a host? Then is it not like putting bacteria on a piece of candy?  
  
The strain of Porphyric Hemophilia is such an organism.  
  
--  
  
Above, directly above one's head, you can see a moon towering overhead. Before it had been three; now, just one. What did it mean? It meant the other two were behind, blocked from view. Whatever energy a moon sent down to the ground, it was being magnified by the moon eclipsing it, becoming greater and greater until all of Tamriel felt the giant shudder of the energy quake.  
  
It was such an unfortunate thing. If it were any other race, perhaps there'd be calm and quiet. But the moons centered on the dark elves and that meant havoc. And as the saying goes, Wood elves are the nature lovers, high elves are the mind trainers, and dark elves - well they are the smartest, the most romantic, but, hah!, they are also the destroyers of life eternal.  
  
There would be pain wrought to this world, no doubt. It was perhaps the most unfortunate thing that all the magic in the world centered upon the city of Vivec, where many of the dark elves lived. Such a power given to one race could be seen as perhaps unfair to all other races. It would be, if the dark elves could control it.  
  
But they cannot. And all that energy would eventually be channeled in ways no other race would think to. All that power eventually would have to take shape. But how? The dark elf's nature, a conglomeration of fire and promiscuity, would take the power and mold it into its own shape.  
  
Little did they know that by night, Vivec would be known as the great cataclysm.  
  
--  
  
Savvin loved his wife. The newly weds had married on Heartfire day last month. Salvin peeked his head out of the window of the one room cornerhouse both bought. Although they were poor, both were naturally handsome, which meant long enduring fistfuls of physical romantic engagement. On the street they lived in, in Vivec, one could barely move fast lest one wished to slam into a carriage of some sort carrying valuable merchandise and an angry rider. That is to say, the alleyways were cramped, the houses were close. The perfect setting for a precarious accident.  
  
Soon, Savvin noticed, for everyday at this time his wife would come emerge through the insular streets carrying fish and water. They loved fish, both of them. It was what made the two great and why they lived in Vivec, the water city. Of course, besides wondrous sex.  
  
There she was! A slender bodied woman carrying a whicker basket through the streets of the poor section on St. Olms. A great looking woman she was. Savvin didn't know whether he was salivating because of the fish, which smell was foreboding the taste, or the voluptuous gal who carried it. Soon. So soon!  
  
The door opened, the woman settled down the fish, and the couple engaged in a hug. The door closed.  
  
Time to cook. Savvin had learned a quick little fire spell in his childhood days. It had never been dangerous before, for in order for it to get dangerous Savvin had to have enough channeling ability, which safe to say, he didn't to his great consternation. His mind bent onto the cooking pot, the smell of crisply burnt fish already jingling in his mouth. fast! Fast! Now! He concentrated and concentrated, the pot began to burn and great aroma of cooked slaughter fish incensed upon his nostrils. Life is good. And after he'd eat, he knew he'd do other things. He looked at his wife for a moment, back bent against him, tending to the clothe for the moment. Suddenly she bent forward, Savvin could see the tense buttocks of a working lady nearing towards him, closer and closer. Immediately, he remembered the look of her breasts as she bent forward, the way her breath smelled when as she moaned, the way her neck tasted salty sweat when she bit her lower lip at that one great point in life where all things are forgotten .  
  
Savvin hadn't noticed it but she was twisting. Her cloth was intermixed with fire! She screamed a painful scream. The bed was aflame. Her body arched over and over on the bed to shake away. Savvin couldn't help but pay attention to his flaming wife, so he leapt towards her. Suddenly the fire burst on her skin, and the scream once painful now was excruciating and hideous. The closer he went, the more painful the scream became, until finally he stopped fearful to near her screaming molten corpse. What could he do?  
  
No, no.!  
  
He cried. Finally, the scream dulled into a moan, then a gasp as she her dead eye from her dead face glanced back at his horrified mouth. The body of his wife fell from the flaming bed and onto his feet. And then his feet were on fire! Water! Why hadn't he thought about water? Why had he neared his wife, because he cared that much??? How did it happen? He had concentrated on flaming the fish and. and the pan bursted behind him. A shattered fragment exploded into his skull and he fell limp within the burning inferno that once was a kitchen and a lover's crib. That last 'accident' was perhaps a merciful thing. it saved him from years of grief.  
  
--  
  
Fellow priestess Arulen knew something had come up when she felt the footsteps of her future husband Jiandar approach her door. A lot could be told from the sound of a person's footsteps. You could understand if they were anxious or if they were extremely depressed or if they happened to find a bag worth fifty thousands drakes. But for Jiandar, the normally calm Jiandar, to pounce about as if he were ready to leap into the waters surrounding the temple complex, seemed slightly amiss to her senses. She turned her head, in that sly feminine way she Jiandar loved. It always brought a smile to his face when she did that.  
  
Jiandar appeared before her quarters, "Arial! Come on! The Archmagister has sounded the meeting. The ceremonies are about to begin!"  
  
As Arulen followed Jiandar, she could sense he had hidden something from her. Something good perhaps.  
  
Soon after, to Jiandar's surprise, they met another priest, who happened to be also unusually content for the occasion. Nevertheless, they smiled to each other abruptly and exchanged curious glances, then forwarded themselves to the large gathering hall where many of the disciples had already seated. In the midst of all the bantering was a tall conspicuous figure - the elderly Archmagister!  
  
Jiandar and Arulen could only watch. They and the fellow they had met and a couple of other disciples were the only ones left standing in the populated hall. Jiandar's traveling all the way to the female quarters for Arulen had made them tardy to the beginning ceremonies. Archmagister resided in the front seat. And with the strike of a great gong, the ceremonies began.  
  
"Welcome!" Said the Archmagister's usually booming voice. The room slowly died down. "As you know, we've all gathered upon this heavenly."  
  
Arulen noticed that for many disciples, many were beaming, which was unusual since they were usually stoic, for after all, they had to be the most disciplined of priests trained in order to be trained at High Fane. She questioned her future husband, who was also in the same perspective. He looked soundly at the room then waved it all away. The ceremony was as usual, slow and suspenseful. Today, the future Archmagister was to be announced. It was about time, too, the elderly Archmagister appeared hazed and hoary and they had recently heard of his dreary health. This knowledge obviously sparked a rout among the trained disciples. Perhaps this was what each of them hoped for.  
  
"For years, I have attended this great hall."  
  
Arulen noticed something about this room. That, except for the torches which were already lit, and produced that flickering ambient light, the other torches were missing. The holders were still there, yet Arulen wondered about this odd happening, why would anyone take away the torches even if they were not needed? Furthermore, she considered the light in the room; it was slightly darker than usually, although she didn't have that much to reference to since she hadn't visited this hall often. Then, slowly, in the same one way can see a small difference if one's eyes remain stationary on one picture long enough, she caught a slight shadow falling on the floor far away. If there were people moving, they were in another hall - this, she supposed, shouldn't alarm her at first. After all, there tended to be people walking amongst those halls all the time. What did alarm her though, was the fact that those shadows lurked but never showed themselves. It was as if they were about to bring something of high importance, but not before it was announced.  
  
Then, a feeling set in. She didn't know why or how but it did. The palm of her hand suddenly felt that queasy anxious feeling along with a small amount of sweat. Her stomach began to grumble. Her heart increased thrice in weight. The soles of her foot felt as if they were fatigued. That feeling. She knew, that feeling was the feeling of - an instinct told her - of something terribly wrong!  
  
She tapped Jiandar quickly; an awkward jittering inside of her bade her to run. "Jiandar!" She whispered, voice heavy.  
  
Jiandar took a second, which lasted a long time for her, "Hmm?"  
  
"We have to go!"  
  
Jiandar's smile abruptly dulled to a halt. "Now? No, not now. I can't leave on the day of my investiture."  
  
"Your investiture?"  
  
Jiandar's smile slowly appeared again. They knew each enough to know that Jiandar loved to hide the good news until the very end. "It's my ceremony, you know. I think you should give me a kiss before I receive my coronation."  
  
Arulen's shudder suddenly increased threefold.  
  
At that moment, the Archmagister's mouth uttered out the words, ".The office of Archmagister holds many responsibilities."  
  
She looked at the Archmagister, then the waning shadows, then back at Jiandar, "We have to leave Now!"  
  
"Quiet Arial. He's ready to announce -"  
  
Arulen didn't know what made her take flight at that moment. It was part instinct, that much she knew, the other part she remained unknown. All she knew was that somewhere down deep inside her very soul, something there, something had pushed, forced her to leave, and now. She bolted for the door, passed it with fear of her soul's demise, shuddered at the point in which she outran the room, and sprinted past her room. She ran and ran and ran even while her heart seemed ready to spurt out with all the tension built within her. It didn't matter where she went, she felt, anywhere except there. Later, when the news had traveled about some disaster, she would remember two shadowy figures, almost out of the range of her eyes and her consciousness's detection, as she passed that first barrier.  
  
Jiandar at that point glanced at the empty spot where her wife-to-be stood, and sighed heavily. She would miss this. Of all the things she would miss this. No one noticed her quick disappearance, for everyone's attention centered on the words leaving the Archmagister's mouth.  
  
"Now, the time has come. I shall present the new head priest of High Fane, and the bearer of all the responsibilities therein."  
  
Everyone breathed in one final breath.  
  
"It shall go to all of you. All of you."  
  
There was highly questionable murmur in the room. All of us?  
  
I thought it had been me. Hadn't he said something to me, with a smile too foreboding to ask? I thought he meant - but this!  
  
"Is this a joke, Father?" One of the disciples in the front role dared to ask.  
  
The archmagister smiled; suddenly he seemed too old and frail to walk. "No, it is not. But in a way, yes it is. The truth? The truth is all of you will be canonized with a great responsibility. You will be transformed from here on to a greater destiny!" He laughed again, now a darkened laugh, "Your soul shall be changed for all of Tamriel!"  
  
The murmuring erupted. Jiandar's head beated with blood. He had waited for this day so long, yet it wasn't him! Nor with it the unusually quiet girl, the bright one he remembered, what was her name? - Sierra, yes. It was not she, and for a while, he had been led to believe it was himself.  
  
Suddenly, the doors bolted shut, as quick as Arulen had bolted away. A small tremor originated from the next hall. A tremor of numerous footfalls. But they were quiet, almost below the level in which they could have been heard. Indeed, a lot could be told from the way a person walked and the sound they made from their footsteps. He heard the tremor erupting, and he knew it accompanying it was the feeling - the feeling that Arulen had first felt not long ago, and still did feel - the feeling of something terribly amiss. And very wrong. Horribly wrong!  
  
Shadows made their way through the floor, for Jiandar and the rest of the wailing disciples to see. Shadows accompanied by nothing - dead souls. It takes a long time for the eye to catch images of those whose souls have been struck dead. It took a long time, too, for them to see the dark figures of vampires with their fiery eyes and their sharp teeth. Predator teeth. The way they ran made Jiandar wish to scream, but he was too frightened to do anything but stare. Suddenly, he was aware that he had been pushed backwards, by someone in front of him with scared eyes - the same eyes Jiandar wished to express - were it not for his body lagging behind his mind! Screams pierced from the front, and as the uproar pushed itself to the back, and as each body fell mercilessly to the blood-soaked teeth, the doors remained closed. They were bolted shut from the outside. 


	9. Eye in the Dark

Sierra stood above the High Fane, in an open aired passageway between two great rooms, high above the people of Vivec while the requiem of St. Osiris moaned in her mind. She trembled. It is said that being of magical properties can withstand the singular context of time and can feel the power and presence of things to come. She felt it, too.  
  
The Archmagister had taught her that. He taught her many things in the past year. For one, there was the funeral hymn of St. Osiris, which one hears when one nears death. Then, there was the siren of Osiris, which one hears when many other people die. She heard that, too, from a corner of her mind a singular beat struck a gong, which then flowed its way to a thousand gongs, attacking each with more ferocity than the one before it. In her mind, so many gongs were present.  
  
Death gongs.  
  
So many, that instead of feeling each one, she felt them conglomerate into one single sound. A great, rumbling quake. So many that the sound became a quake. A loud, indefinite quake of indefinite bearing. Somewhere, out there, she could sense the entrapment of Vivec's children. As the Chimer had died, and became Dumner, so would they, but instead of a transformation that would protect the heart of Vivec's elves, the next would reshape their hearts, into stone. she cried inside. into molten rock.  
  
Sierra feared. She feared because she was afraid of her own death. The smell of it trembled her. It crept up her spine and created that tingling sensation of a thousand blades running down her forehead, crawling it seemed, closer and closer to her inner mind. But doesn't everyone fear? He who doesn't has already lost his sanity.  
  
She could not see the city from inside High Fane, but the air that flowed through the open aired passageway told her enough. Death. Death with each flutter of the wind. With each breath marked a new death. But not of pleasant death, but of a transformation. Sierra bowed down to the throne of Osiris. A mystical antique laid before her. She wondered if it could hear her prayers, for the Dumner people. In her mind's eye, she reached for inner peace, her mystical hands grabbed for that one great throne. Her gentle spirit - no, it was neither gentle nor anything else resembling spirit - her petrified apparition grasped for the throne of Osiris. Not to beg for the lives of the Dumner. No, she knew they would soon be gone, but to beg for the quick destruction of the dumner.  
  
Please. She begged. Her voice within her throat resembling a quiver.  
  
Her mind's eyes wondered through the passage of time, just like Father Archmagister had told her. She passed through winds of horror, torrents of fiery death, through deep dark sea of pain, and as she moved through each level towards her final goal to reach the throne of Osiris, she became more and more fearful. Now the quakes, painful before, were magnified. It throbbed her head and a vein in her temple almost exploded. She wished it did, for then she would be relieved of this responsibility. She truly wished she'd expire away into nothingness. No - that would be impossible. It would have been merciful.  
  
And so, as she moved through every flail of the great dark sea, the drums appeared. From afar, she could read, for she was a truly gifted being. Her sense told her things to come, and whereas no one else, except perhaps the Archmagister himself could feel the quake that was around her, she was awed by that sudden dawn of drums. The quake. The Drums. The drums seemed like a melodious sound compared to the trembling of the thousand deaths - the gongs that made one singular quake.  
  
She reached out, because there was nothing to do but move faster along her path to the Throne of Osiris. Suddenly, the quake was behind her, and the drums - melodious in sound - emerged in front in the form of a ship. A barge.  
  
But she did not see the barge at first. She had, instead, saw its sails. The magnificence of the sails astonished her at first. When they first appeared from the edge horizon, she had thought the scene was awkward, but what wasn't? This was the passageway to the Throne of Osiris. It was still awkward, for the sails just didn't seem to match the waves of the sea. There was something in those sails. And then she realized when the beginning triangular tip of the sail emerged higher and higher still, like a pyramid that doesn't seem to stop elevating from the sands where it lay, that the sails that emerged from the edge horizon were by far too large. Like a mountain they were. A giant black mountain.  
  
And then, finally after she'd seen the sails towering over the horizon, large enough to block the suns on that mystic ocean if there were one, a wooden base elevated from under. That, she knew, was the ship itself. The ship was a platform for the sails, like an island was a platform for an erupting mountain. In her minds eye, and in her mind's ear, the sound of drums beat onto her. It was perhaps, less intense then the quake of death, and for this she was glad. She moved through the ocean of Osiris, hovering, and made way for that barge that was by far too large. It didn't hurt her, nor petrify her if the barge was the greatest thing she had ever seen. It towered higher than the largest mountains. Its tips spanned great continents.  
  
She came to rest on the barge. The drums stopped beating. And all were silent. She hovered through the corridors of the barge, surely on her way to the Throne of Osiris. She moved quickly, speedily, mellifluously through. Finally, she came upon a room with great doors; wider than all the other doors, certainly wider than her, for she was just a speck in the infinite continuum of the gods.  
  
She slid through a hole in the opening, at first fearing that the opening would disappear, and she'd be stuck in between the gates so close to the Throne where she intended to beg for mercy; for the quick death of the Dumner people. And then, suddenly, like what she had dreamed in her mind in dreams that one could never remember except in times of odd deeds, she saw the enormous figure of Osiris towering above his own throne. And such a picture it was! For there was neither beauty nor dazzling jewelry in that frame. There was simply size, and nakedness, the symbolism of a dead corpse. She moved forward, forward, and when she was about to clear through the crack in the great doors, they began to move.  
  
The doors were closing! The doors were closing she cried! The death god's eyes looked at the entire room, and did not see the speck she was. The doors! The blackening doors on both sides were becoming one! And she would be stuck between!  
  
No! No! I had come for mercy! I only wished simple death! Stop!  
  
And the doors closed.  
  
Nooooo! No!!!  
  
All was dark, pitch black. She felt no pressure at all. But neither did she feel anything else.  
  
From somewhere a singular though crossed her mind that the doors were opening once again. But nay, they were not.  
  
She became petrified once more. Death was not a fear for her no longer. Nor was it the sound of a thousand quakes. And then, hell erupted.  
  
One does not know hell until he sees it. Hell is the fiery chasms that contain the demonic spirit that eats away at you for an eternity. No.  
  
Hell was pitch black, Hell was the feeling of a place where death was not but all other evils were. Death was not evil. No, in comparison to other things, it was neutral. A quick death compared to an eternity of pain and anguish was pure mercy. That was what she wished for the Dumner. The journey she took to the throne of the death god was for that. But now, enclosed in this dark void, it seemed it wouldn't be true. She had failed. Why had she ventured this journey? As long as she thought it were possible, she would attempt it, futile as it was. But she feared now, more than ever, because she was no longer within range of that merciful death. Something else had befallen her.  
  
A red small speck of light, a dark red light from a point in front of her appeared. The quake slowly trembled in her ears. It originates from this dark red light, she thought. From then on, she no longer breathed.  
  
The red light expanded, neared slowly from the dark void that enclosed her everywhere. The sound magnified, too. The quake of a thousand - no, of endless deaths. Was it deaths? Or was it moans instead? Hadn't the drums of the great barge the sound of death? If those were. what were these?  
  
It seems her Father Archmagister had taught her wrong.  
  
What is this sound?  
  
It was the sound of the living hell! She suddenly remembered! A page in the scrolls of time within the secret chamber of High Fane where the Archmagister had led her told her that! The Archmagister instructions had been quite explicit. She was not to touch or read anything from that room which he had not already ordained. But upon a twist of the Archmagister's neck, her eyes had flickered to the scrolls hidden by many echelons of walls, her keen eye which she had kept away from the Father Archmagister, her mystic eye had seen the words but discerned no meaning.  
  
Now, they did. The sound was not of death. The sound was of the living hell, the burning of flesh, which has no end. Death would never seep here, no, the gongs wouldn't allow it. It was eternal hell; it was a great spasm of hate and cruelty.  
  
The point of red light drew closer. And now - to Sierra horror! - she could see features of that red light. It was not a single point of light, but something even worse, something hated, something of eternal evil, but not death! Death here would be mercy!  
  
It was the face of the devil. The triangular features of the great sin- eater emerged from pitch dark. The horns of the devil sprouted on its horrifying face. It petrifying features struck Sierra like a great bolt. Its teeth sank into Sierra's soul. Its grin wretched around its demonic cheeks, stretching the mouth wide on either side. Yet those features were not the most feared - if one could actually state which part of the devil's face was more fearful! Sierra might have laughed here if she was not baring witness to that which many - the ones who were given mercy - would not see. The most horrifying part of the devil's face was not the horns, not the great large chasm of a mouth with long rows of endless teeth, but the eyes.  
  
She suddenly remembered a chant. so strange to remember a chant in the witness of the devil.  
  
In here, is the place where all, See their death and perilous fall All those ill-fated souls have come to burn All will see their worst horrors churn  
  
In here, is where the sinful die  
  
Where is here? Why, here is the devil's eye.  
  
But she had not sinned! She could not recall sinning in her life! Except. Except. except the flood? Had she really been the creator of that great flood? Were the storms really she? Could it be?  
  
And the word from the devil was: YES. It laughed.  
  
SIERRA. It called her name. SIERRA.  
  
She screamed, but it worthless to scream in the face of the devil. It only drew hot fire from the chasms in its deadly - No, forever torturous - face.  
  
And then, she asked the most naive question that could be asked in such a situation as her.  
  
What do you want from me? Why me?  
  
The devil grinned. The devil grinned!  
  
Then it laughed. Spurning hot fire from its teeth.  
  
Simple: YOU RID US OF THE SUN, Storm Weaver.. 


	10. Fall of Vivec

For the first time, Sanden took the boat. He had been previously afraid of the water. But now, it seemed to be a good day to take the water. He just felt it, that's all. Even though he knew there were all kinds of creatures in the water that he didn't want to know. For example, there were slaughter fish, which could eat away a man bite by bite. He had heard from somewhere that there are dreugh warriors who protect their homes, but he didn't know if there were any in Vivec.  
  
Vivec is normally a magnificent place. You can see as far as your eyes can take you until the depths and water in the air blocks the sight. Far over the southern mists is the great church and palace, larger than any building you have ever laid eyes on, and look - above that is the ministry of truth, held in the sky by Lord Vivec himself. To the north are the great houses, Telvanni, Redoran, and Hiaalu.  
  
Suddenly, as you look in amazement, a great heap of fire sprang from one canteen from far away. Shattering the platforms of another canteen into smoldering rock. The small specks of burning flesh dazzles your eye as they drop downwards from the ravaged platform into the waters below; each watery crash making small plops that can barely be heard from this far away. For a moment, you might have thought those were the same sizzling specks coming from Alkaviri fireworks.  
  
Two chancellors have died; House Hiaalu has begun to seek revenge. The fireball slammed itself into the great roof dome of a canteen, the inferno splattered all over. Soon another fireball shot forth, burying its fury onto several walkways. The fire immediately brought great cacophony to the crowd, which slowed to a startling standstill to watch. After that paralyzing moment had passed though, all remnants of order lost itself into a riot. There was at once a mist of scurrying men and women. Then a loud roar broke out from the canteen walls, but silence followed soon after, men armed with steel paced out of the building, baring signs and large flags of loyalty to their great houses. On both sides steel locked with each other. The crowd looked at each side, bedazzled at their fortune to be stuck in the mist of what looked like a soon-to-be battlefield. Then a rapacious hubbub merged from both sides of both canteens, oblivious to the Mer trapped between, then the roar that begun a second time erupted into a full- scale boom of war cries. The armies began to converge together. As bystanders from the crowd, men and women, trampled beneath the storming troops.  
  
Sanden watch all these with indifferent from his small boat, guided by a gondolier. He was happy he had not taken the normal route. This was faster. And this was much less dangerous for the occasion. Sanden didn't care for all those people had died in the initial explosions that had sent forth great waves of heat to the surrounding Cantons. He didn't care at all. What he did care was that he was safe.  
  
"Go on rowing." He said to the shaken gondolier.  
  
The house debates had gone long enough. Contracts were voided in the light of recent assassinations. Any possibility of peace was a thing to doubt.  
  
It's about time for some action! Sanden didn't care who won really, for he was a simple trader of weaponry on a trip to sell. weapons. He didn't care which house would eventually defeat the other and therefore weaken Vivec and the dumner as a whole, weak enough so that another deadly force can inflict much much greater damage. Of course, he didn't know those things. He was Sanden, the Great Merchant Mer. And profit was the only thing that could move his mind.  
  
Now, he heard a thundering sound from somewhere above his head.  
  
Or was it thunder?  
  
It couldn't be. This was too quiet, too constant to be thunder. It was like, like a rumble through the air, like the way fire makes that crackling sound when a breeze passes through.  
  
Sanden felt awkward in the wake of this querulous sound. It seemed. just odd, to hear it. He'd never heard it before. Nor would he ever hear it again. A large shadow began to waver, calling to his attention. He raised his head, up in awe, and for a moment, just a moment when all his attention was focused on purely that small frame; he saw what seemed to be an elevating sun. It was moving too fast up the sky, he could tell, for the distance between it and the floating rock below it, the Ministry of Truth, was expanding by the mere second. Then, he realized his error in judgment. His mind had told him it was the sun in motion, but instead, it was the Ministry of Truth, and it was falling!  
  
Falling!!!  
  
His mind would have rather accepted a sun that moved too fast than a great rock held up in the sky by Vivec's power falling down crashing into the water. And the sound? Now, he understood what the sound meant. It was an infinite sized boulder hurling downwards in the face of wind. It was the sound of mountains tumbling, of eons of permanence mashing downward in the deadliest of all fates. It was the Ministry of Truth, Vivec's own magic, dissipating in the front of all to see.  
  
The citizen's of Vivec witnessed the powerful might of Vivec the God collapse.  
  
And as Sanden watched from his indifferent (not anymore) gaze, he saw its slow awkward fall into the ocean below. It seemed slow, for it was large in comparison to anything he had seen fall. It slowly came down.  
  
Then, when it finally smashed into the oceans, Sanden could see it for sure, but hear it he could not. Until several moments later, when the greatest sounds of ocean waves smashed into his elven ears. WHAASH.  
  
But that was not all.  
  
He saw the tidal waves move away in a ring, like the way a ripple is made by the drop of a rock, and for a infinitely small time - how small will never be known - he entertained the thought that he was safe from all danger. The waves were smaller from that distance, but when it made its approach to Sanden, he was engulfed.  
  
Dreughs and Slaughter fish are nothing compared to the dangers of the water itself. Oh yes, and the splash of falling mountains.  
  
--  
  
A great fire exploded like a ball of sun, quickly eroding eons of construction and history in a moment's flash. The Great House's attention is on each other, brought on by their own primitive dark elven instincts, magnified a thousand fold by the triple eclipse. Fire now reaches every dark elf's soul, and it must come out. As it comes, it is most advantageous for hate to come, too. For once it is unleashed, so does many other things along with it.  
  
However, as attention is centered on each other's throats, something darker and slippery slithers like a snake below, ready to grow a thousand fold. And then, the snake shall pummel upwards from the ground, and bite. This snake of course, is a blood-sucking creature combined with a deadly mutagen ready to spread its death to other men and mer. 


	11. Shadows on the Wall

Look dear reader. Look as the words flow through this text, for really what you are not seeing is scribbles on a scroll, but a picture painted within your mind. Look, as the city of Vivec with the sun nearing its afternoon decline became a city of terror. Watch as the world of the dark Dumner transforms into an even darker nature. Watch as the red of the fire glare reflecting from the ocean glaze blind your eyes, a symbol of the incoming doom.  
  
Children screamed. Men and Mer ran from the deadly disease. Bodies of dead flesh followed them. The inodori saw of course, but they could do little against such a large foe. The inodori were the ordinators, the peacekeepers, but what could they do in a time of war? Because in the end, this is a war. It began in the inside and slowly spread to the outside, the same way poison can spread throughout the body, except in the case of poison, it dilutes, this does not - it becomes stronger and stronger as each man or women or child falls victim to the disease.  
  
In the case of the ordinary ordinators, he perhaps is exposed to a similar fate as anyone else. He may struggle, he may attack furiously against the disease, but he is only mortal - a mortal who is trained in the deadly arts but nevertheless mortal. The vampires are not. He, in the end, will tire, and then vampires will surround him. And as each muscle within him loses to fatigue, the ring will grow tighter. Finally, when all his muscles fail, then the ring will at last tighten into a small point of light - and out comes a scream of death like every other mortal life surrendered to the dead flesh.  
  
You see these things and you must wonder. Where are the gods in all this? Could the Aedra princes be so lackadaisal as to allow an entire race to be extinguished like a lightened candle smothered by an enormous wind? Then again, you might ask, where were they when the dwarves disappeared? And if you can't answer the question or the answer itself is too saddening to utter, then you must resign yourself to watch the deaths of many before your eyes.  
  
But no - They aren't deaths!  
  
They are, in fact, transformations . of the soul. If only you could see what the gods could see, then you'd be amazed at the happenings so far, so much more amazed than your wide-eyed scared face tells you even now. What do you see? You see a city, with flames flickering in each of its buildings. You see magic uncontrolled. You see the destruction of Vivec in a fiery inferno, crushing millennia old statues in a stampede. What do the gods see? The gods see an inferno of souls.  
  
That's right. What had come from a simple bar where the bacteria, Porphyric Hemophilia, had been planted was now available citywide. It had spread like any other epidemic.  
  
The eyes of gods scan the living inhabitants of Vivec, and all that comes to them is pain and anguish, followed by a great smoke vanquishing; except, instead of ash, it was the cry of souls. Yet still. the gods remain unmoved. Perhaps you might be different. Look dear reader, watch the suckling of blood, watch the death screams as scared eyed creature (much like yourself) run through the burning streets of Vivec. Why? For plundering behind them are thousands of dead-eyed creatures, with souls trapped within - unfortunate.  
  
What did it feel like for the souls of the dead? What did it seem to its insufferable agony, when they watched its body move without movement, without control? What did it seem, as its body chased a frightened child and roamed the streets searching for blood? What did it seem, when it grappled the writhing body of the hapless victim, screaming in utter horror, eyes in dismay, in search of peace that would never be there. It must have been like a nightmare for the victim, to be in one of those dreams where one is chased, and then finding one' self trapped in a dark corner away from all chances of help, and surrounded by a frightful predator whose eyes glance solely at your neck, and being able to see their horrifying approach through the grounds in which you'll most assuredly will die, and see their gaits motion slowly slowly towards that point in which your life will be taken. yes, time must be very slow for those who are about to loose their life. Perhaps hell isn't a hell of deep darkness; perhaps hell depends solely on the individual in question. For those who wish to live on, perhaps hell is the tedious repetition of the last moments in which the victim breathed his last breath, or the tedious moments when the individual sees all around him - all his loved ones casting images of sorrow at his nearly dead body, and destined to watch it all over and over, again and again. Then again, hell might be the moment in life when a lover is wretched away forever from his arms.  
  
Think of what a being must feel when he sees over and over again the small seconds in which he catches the slightest glimpse of his lover's cloth, but without the face or any other part of the body, think of what if must be to him - destined to see the small departing figure of true love disappearing over the last hills, into a war in which will never be survived. What must it feel for the individual in hell - his hell - to see the waving arms of his lover and her eyes and that lovable smile but knowing those eyes see nothing but a mere departing, not knowing it will be the last departure.  
  
Perhaps that is hell for some.  
  
There are other forms of hell, too. One must wonder, though, which is worse? To be inside the victim, or to bare witness to a thousand deaths caused by a body that you once controlled? There are hells for the souls trapped within the body of a ravaging predator. How do you weight the burden upon those souls, after seeing death upon death caused by its own hands? What does it feel like to be inside a vampire? Is it like a coma? Instead of simply being able to hear small fragments of the living world, one can hear and smell and see every small detail - and do nothing about it. Yes, it must certainly be a torturous hell for each vampire - not the vampire itself of course, but the souls trapped inside the one-way glass.To watch as your body stretches out its arms for the victim, whose arms are pushed out to you, chanting in a pale futile mercy - "Spare me! Spare me! But the gods, I don't want to die!" Frightened, he sees through the one- way pane an eye of deadly hallow, never knowing that there's soul hidden very deep behind those eyes returning the same agonized gaze.  
  
Then watch as those outstretched hands are bludgeoned by your sharp claws, which simply reap those weak mortal limbs away like chicken bone. And revealed to you is his hoary face; Your victim's body is exposed; his screaming changes to a higher echelon of fear; he stops pleading, instead he lays still, motionless, paralyzed, he seems to pray with his lips; you see his blood wretched eyes staring at your blood-suckling teeth. And as you close that final distance, his lips pale; his face is white. You see the blank expression your victim reveals to you at that moment when your arms are enclosed around his neck, and your jaw dig deeper and deeper into his veins, and as his arms no longer flail against your body like that of a wing on a impaled insect, at that moment - it's as if you - the soul trapped within the monstrous predator - you witness the unfolding of your victim's life along with the flow of the blood sucked out of him.  
  
And then, as your victim's blood trickles to a slow pump, and his heart gives that one last weak push, what possible remorse can compete with the remorse you feel as you lick your lips clean of that last rich taste of copper?  
  
There is hell, most certainly. And for the soul of a roaming vampire, this is it. Ah, to be in Vivec at this time is a sorrowful thing. There is no escape.  
  
--  
  
Arulen heard the noises, she did. They were there. There was nothing to do but hear them as long as they were there. In her mind, she wondered what she could have done to save them. The guilt, perhaps, ate at her. She wondered what might have happened if she shouted to the gathering, told them something bad was coming. If she had pulled on Jiandar's robe, then maybe he would have listened. To no use. there's no point in thinking of this, she thought, amazed at how calm she now felt. They were dead, now. Or were they?  
  
She loved Jiandar. She truly did. But all the love had been broken when she felt that feeling coming from those dark shadows. The truth? Fear can break love. For the first four days, she hid herself away from those terrible, brutal screams. Of women, children, and men alike. The children's screams were especially the worse. To Arulen's natural mother complex, hearing children scream was the same as hearing the death of a loved one. They were sharp pitched, sharper than the screams of grown men and women. No doubt they were meant to alert more senses in those who heard, to propel those with ears into aid. Because as children, they could not defend themselves, and evolution made them so they developed a scream to match their more vulnerable state. Which alerted Arulen's motherly heart, more than anything else.  
  
But she resisted that natural desire to come out in aid, for she of course, would be helpless against a vampire. The children were as good as dead, she shuddered when she thought of this. Even a man could not fend of a vampire, and in order for one to battle against the unholy might, one either had to be an imperial soldier, an excellent one at that, or an Inodori bladesmaster. A woman on the other hand, a simple person, lacked the physical strength, which the vampire could channel through its veins.  
  
On the fifth day, she along with many others - made a break for the open. The sun was high, so she remembered the saying, "Sunning sky makes no vampire nigh."  
  
She along with a mother carrying a child and several other dark skinned Mer ran outside of Vivec. It was a sad thing to be in Vivec at this time. But it was an even sadder thing when it rained, for where it rained, the sun did not shine. And without the sun to protect the mortal living, the undead could roam freely. There were many who ran for the open plains, but the undead only caught up to them eventually. The vampires with their unholy strength could outdistance any mortal man or mer, when it rained. When it rained, they were free.  
  
It was bad enough to have them in Vivec. For Vivec is a roofed city, and sun never shines below the roof. The only place safe during the day is the platforms and railings outside. That was the past. The rain changed everything. Now, nowhere was safe from the vampires.  
  
Yet, still they continued to run outside of Vivec, unknowing that at one point, the vampires with their unholy strength would eventually catch up. No life can escape the undead life. 


	12. Bright Sun, Ocean Breeze, and White Sand

She dreamed of the perfect morning. However, something was amiss. What was wrong with this picture? With its white and yellowish walls surfaced with sunshine from the abundance of windows? With its pure white and untainted walls sprayed by sunshine from the enormous windows? And as she looked out from these open gates, her eyes were filled with dozens of wants and desires as they searched the open fields and plains of wild grass far. Far away until they reached the peaceful ocean, whose waters were polished by brazen crystals glimmering, and washing delicate sparkles while the sun's tides rained down upon it. Her eyes seemed to guide her, for she felt her spirit float upward towards those coasts, until her nose could smell the cool crisp scent of the sea breeze. It was a smell that tinkled down her face and seemed to stay right above her nostrils so that when she gasped for air, the aroma played its musical joy for her. What was wrong with it? As her sight turned back towards the room filled by numerous antiques and polished glass - made from the finest artists in Tamriel? And just in that mere second, of fate or dream alike, she realized what that was. She yelled with an urge made from deep within her heart, and perhaps her loins, too. Her call for it was answered by a person appearing as a slender dot from the farthest hill, any farther would have put him on the coast or in the deep blue ocean. Judging from the outlines of the figure, she could guess it was a man, a native dumner man. A rather tall one by his distinct features. He walked slowly towards the window and all the time, she could see his face. In this dream, she knew exactly what the man was present for. It was something she just knew; the man was a partner, a companion, and a lover! As the man entered through the windows, she changed her position and sat upright on the bed. For a grand reason, she knew that face, or rather the facial expression from that face from a place not so long ago. But the body of that face had changed; Kenil was no more a small dumling, but a massive, strong built native dumner with a body to match.  
  
She looked at him from her bed and saw to her delight that he had advanced closer. She awaited for Kenil as if she were a wife and he were her husband, all in a lovers glance. In a way, if one could have possibly looked at her from this dream, that same person would have dropped to their knees in envy. She, who had nothing but a nightgown, looked amiably desirable.  
  
He came even closer still, and was almost nearing her bed, and she could feel more warmth of love and lust as he set his eyes on her with lesser distance. At last, he was within reach; she extended her arms in wait to receive him. A desire or instinct came over that made every moment longer than it was so, so that if she felt there would be any more seconds to lapse before he came into her arms, she would writhe painfully for not being answered. Yet he was reluctant to give her what she wanted. He simply remained there, motionless, unable to reply to her desperate form. There was something distant about his facial expression, as if it was one of regret and derelict. Neither touching nor moving away from her, he stood still as if in wait of something. At last, he came even closer by sitting on the bed, yet not close enough for Sierra to grasp his entire body, but within limits for her to touch his clothing.  
  
And he moved even closer! - So that his lower torso rested on her hind legs. She felt this there was enough nudge to finally clasp her arms around him. She did so in speed and all the strength she could bear. And in the same equal, yet faster speed, he reached out for both of her arms and caught them accurately at the wrist, which had to be where he intended. In return, she fought the grip in frustration, fluttering endlessly as to why he would not allow her to hold him.  
  
The man did not alter, except to push her further backwards so that she once again lay on the bed. The pillow felt smooth on her head; it did a bit to calm her down. At last, she gave up struggling, and lay on the bed with her dear love in front of her face so that she could do little to resist. She could feel her heart race faster and louder constantly. Her pulse continued to quicken until she could no longer stand it. That was when she stopped fighting his grip.  
  
When her heart finally halted its race to struggle, she could do nothing but open her mouth to speak in a breathless tone, "Why?"  
  
He gave the answer in a whisper, "Because you cannot touch me."  
  
As this answer rang in her ears, Sierra felt as if they were destined to be apart from each other. Her heart sank in remorse. She asked again, this time in return for his answer, "Why?"  
  
The man attempted to answer; he allowed his lips to move but no sound came.  
  
Sierra tried but could not hear his voice. So she begged him to come nearer.  
  
He, with no other choice, as if his voice was dimming by the moment, did so. As if this was the only chance presented to her, she seized the moment and shoved her head forward for his lips! She reached for it swiftly with her mouth, and as she found it, she realized he had not attempted to back away, as said. And for not doing so, all their senses were engaged in this wondrous, most pleasant moment. Sierra found she could not move away from the engagement, and freed herself dearly in every moment of it. Yet, where there seemed no end, the man did actually pull away from her needy lips. Sierra felt pain for stopping before reaching her utmost satisfaction. Why then did he permit her to be filled with such unrest? But she soon knew the reason.  
  
Soon, there became a glow from the man's eyes to the point in which it scared her to see it; it was accompanied by a distant flare of heat from his body. It became hotter until the heat radiated like boiling water onto her skin! It became too painful to touch, and she retracted back, even against her will, with horror.  
  
His face turned to gloom, and as if to end her dream, he said, "I'm sorry." The figure sat back and shook its head while looking down at her, like a miserable scrib. "I'm sorry." It kept repeating.  
  
What happened next drew ambiguity from her; both love and hate mixed together.  
  
The man's face began to mold. The skin began to rust from the heat and its outlines began to age. The man's skin resembled an elder on his deathbed, with everything dragging wherever the ground pulled it. The flaps above the eye sockets began to droop, like a mask had finally lost its sense of stick on the man's face. Sierra was thunderstruck, too shocked to be afraid. The man sat there in front of her, sat like everything was normal, while his face burned and sagged until it was just a piece of mush. Then, suddenly, to her very own surprise, after the initial shock swept through her, a feeling foreign to her took its place, Sierra now found herself unwilling to wait.  
  
She reached into the fire for the man's head and began to pull off the layers of skin! And wherever she touched, she felt flame crawling, snipping her fingers. But she was unwilling to stop. For a while, there seemed to be endless amounts of skin on his head! So it seemed that as each time she peeled off one layer, another layer seemed to have molded then decay and sag once again.  
  
At last, with fear behind her, she felt for a layer of true skin and found it. She dug into the man's face, digging relentlessly until all of the inconsequential flesh was gone and the real true skin was left - skin that wasn't rusted or old or dangling.  
  
And the face that struck through those layers of mask brought love and adoration to her heart.  
  
It was a young women's face, fierce yet beautiful. Its eyes were staring right at her with a maternal countenance; and filled with a red blood shot color. The eyes were of Dumner but the face resembled the white man. Who was she? A person she had long forgotten? Someone from her distant past that now she only could glimpse at? Sierra was too deep in love to care. She embraced the maiden's body in the loveliest way she could imagine.  
  
She heard the maiden cry her name, and felt wet tears as the warm substance trickled down her ears and carouse her cheeks. Some of it dripped down into the corners of her mouth. The taste was the flavor of copper. She could feel herself being changed by this luscious taste, and welcomed it. In fact, she begged for more.  
  
Sierra became a vampire purposefully upon that day. Much to the devil's will and desire. 


	13. Epilogue, Or is it?

I know that I didn't finish the damn thing. And I probably never will. At least not in the five year timespan between here and the end of college. Nevertheless, I'd like all to know that I did attempt, so as to at least salvage something from this great galactic heap of blood-churning, emotional-thrilling inferno BLOODBATH!

Nevertheless, I did have an ending planned; Kennil eventually finds love, Sierra seeks salvation (only to die from Kennil's blade), Kennil eventually becomes Melville (no really? How'd you guess?) and Vivec resurrects... (as a cow herder.)

J/K! 

--- 4/26/2004, Melville The Third's Last Entry


	14. Technical Glossary About Morality

Storm Weaver  
  
"In this poem is a mask  
Hiding the fear of many a past  
For only those in the oblivion plane  
  
Can hear in here and remain of sane  
  
In the futures of all time,  
In the sorrows of worlds once sublime  
Are the cruel words of a cruel task  
For you to listen mouths aghast  
  
In here, fiery dragons plunge the air  
Tasting mouthfuls of legs and hair  
Sweeping deceits from their farm  
Eating souls of tainted mortal yarn  
  
In here, deadly daedra fly and sear  
Inflicting many sums of fear  
Finding adultery in its stall  
Turnings sinful to crawling maw  
  
In here, the name of death is very near  
And heavy souls - paralyzed to hear  
The sounds of flames rushing in  
Burning minds and aching sin  
  
In here, is a world filled with blame  
Where not one is pure and all is aflame  
  
In here, is the place where all,  
See their death and perilous fall  
All those ill-fated souls have come to burn  
All will see their worst horrors churn  
  
In here, is where the sinful die  
  
Where is here?  
Why, here is the devil's eye." --- Premonitions of truth, told by a Dark-Prince. Found on a scroll in the  
eastern cities of Balgorath (5th era name for the 3rd era province of  
Morrowind), in the Caverns of Balgorath. Kept secret, no doubt, by the  
palace guild of Prometheus Estates Emperor Onrad the Fourth, heavenly  
protector of the sixteen constellations.  
  
Preface; Author's Introduction  
  
Evil is illogical. That is both true and untrue. It is sure that evil derives from illogic, the illogic of being unable to comprehend other people's thoughts - the illogic of being unable to feel neither empathy nor sympathy when others endure pain - but being illogical, and following a pattern discernable by logic, already indicates that evil is indeed logical. If all could see what others saw when they were harmed, then pain would never be dealt. But sadly, this is not true. Errors are made in logic, which can be predicted within every social network. Since it can be predicted, then it is logical, once one comes to terms with its function. It has roots; it spreads. And when it has a certain pattern (derived from illogic but functions in a logical manner that can be predicted), as does evil when it sprouts, then by definition - evil is also logical. Evil, in essence, is a parasite, a cheat without the sanctity of morals to guide it. It functions by living off the great things of the world, taking advantage of all that is right. In a purely sociological aspect, there is order, and then there is disorder. The disorder derives from the evil within each being. It stems from the desire to change for the better; sometimes that desire overwhelms whatever sense the individual has for the greater good, and there, evil is created.  
  
We now know what is evil. We should also know that all organisms, whether they are on the top or the bottom of the evolutionary scale, are always attempting to better their existence (by pleasure or in the amoeba's case, survival), we should also know the case of genetics. In Darwin's theory of social evolution, one who has the best traits, live longer to reproduce, therefore the children have the same traits and they live longer to reproduce. Anything that has negative traits, are less probable to reproduce, being either that they have disadvantages that cause them to die, or disadvantages that make them less of a candidate of reproduction. We now know that those traits, which are favorable in the environment they are in, exist longer than those traits that are not suitable to the environment they are in. For example, let us say that in a certain deserted island, there exists people who have five fingers, and there exists people with four. Those that have five fingers, being the more advantageous in genetic traits, will flourish, while those that exist with four will not. The people with five will continue to exist, and so will their traits, while the four will at some point die. Simple.  
  
But can we ever extinguish evil? Referring to the first paragraph, if evil is an illogical logic (derived from illogic but functions in an logical way), then can everyone be logical all the time? Can everyone feel empathy for another to a point that no harm is ever inflicted? Never, of course. Pain will always be evident. It will always be present. It may subside but never disappear completely, for no one can completely understand another being's thoughts.  
  
So what happens, if, there exists organisms that has traits that take advantage of all the functions of other organisms? Such as we humans take advantage of cattle, so, what happens if there exists traits of another organism that takes advantage of us? And what, by god, happens if this organism lives not by the same way we live, but by an entirely different way; made by different things. Existing solely to take advantage of us. What happens if its values are different, its existence is different, and what happens, if this organism's manner of obtaining pleasure (or by maximizing its existence) directly parallels by inflicting pain? What happens if this evil thing cannot be stopped, ever, and it continues to eat away like a parasite on a host? In fact, what I'm referring to is a parasite, and yes - on a host. The host is humanity, all life forms that seek good, that follows the moral yardstick. The parasite, does the exact opposite. It attacks and attacks the host. Sucking away its blood. Little doubt you know what I'm speaking of. It is vampirism, the great deadly organism that flows contrary to all other forms of logic.  
  
And on an entirely different subject, as for the idea of other organisms (elves - dwarfs - succulent nymphs even, this is a fantasy book. my fantasy book, I may have added one or two just for my sake at some point) there are two theories that define the course of change in time pertaining to evolution. One is the gradual theory, which organisms change and adapt to their surroundings through eons of small genetic alterations. The second is a quick spasmodic change where organisms adapt to their surroundings within the mere timeframe of fewer generations, then stabilizing, then adapting once more when the environment changes again. Now, let us suppose that this second theory does exist, is true, and applies here. If that were the case, then what would happen if a world (like Tamriel; a place of elves, dwarfs, and luscious nymphs) went through quick changes so fast because of the constant polarization (gravity) of say. three moons (which will later be referred in the book as god-moons)? Such gravity would definitely alter the landscape on an incalculable scale compared to how our moon alters ours through creating oceanic tides. And suppose that in this world I'm venturing into, that even if the landscape changes incredibly fast, it still contains a habitable climate. And therefore the intelligent life there adapts quickly each time, and the faster the interval between adaptations the more they change on an overall scale, thus separating one pack of organisms with another permanently, and creating separate but intelligent races.  
  
And as for magic? Think of it as a skill, derived from laws, which allow beings to feed on the gravity of the three god-moons, (You can see how this is going to develop, When all the god-moons appear on one night, all power the power of the world is concentrated on you. etc. The polarization of the god-moons creates a certain amount of charge in the land (Tamriel), thus creating what we can call - a planetary battery. hmm. got your planet-size energizer bunny? And depending upon the individual's ability to channel that energy (polarization; gravitational fluctuations), one can derive ranks of mages and sorcerers. That is the only way to describe it. Well, in my perspective anyway!  
  
So here is the technical side of this book, for all those who read fantasy with wizards and magical fireballs and think - ack! And as for all those who are genuine fantasy readers, I have provided for you a text full of it.  
  
- Master Melvin III, on his bedside table. 


	15. Technical Glossary About Telvanni Coast

_                Up around that time, Kenil hadn't been doing much. Of course, if you asked him, he'd say just the opposite. The world, according to him, had been filled up twice with the blood of the infernal dragon, slayed by Kenil himself. And, according to him, he had already gone to see the palace and Vivec himself fawned over his mysterious yet utterly dominating powers. He had proclaimed vengeance on the almighty Melhoon Dragoon (again, purely according to him), and had coupled with (and saved) many mistresses of the awed Emperor Septim. Then, he was granted Lord of the Western Provinces, Lord of the high elves, Lord of the dead, Lord of all magicka and pretty women. He was a precocious child (on some level). But then, a girl named Sierra dropped in, and things miraculously changed… _

_- Melvin III, scribbling beside Lake Tulsa_

_What is this? Who are these people? And what are they doing to me? I can feel my legs being carried off, and they've got me by my arms. I'm being tied up! I'm their prey, their food, but they want me whole first. They're taking me in first aren't they? Then they'll hack me to pieces, and I'll be served as a warm meal. That's what's happening isn't it? _

"Get, " They brought her in as painlessly as possible. The rain was pouring now. The vehement drops littered the pathway to the farm while splattering mud all around. "Out of the way."

_What's that scream? That loud and piercing voice? Am I being shouted at? Is it a death chant? Am I too paralyzed to understand? I can't… I can't feel anything…_

Kenil felt the back of Granther's strong frame shove into his head. He felt himself stumble back several times before steadying himself. He looked shamefully back at Granther, holding the girl by the armpits while Arcata held her legs. 

_The screams! I can sound out the chant now. Kill her. Kill her. They say!_

He quickly uncovered the bed and retreated to the corner, seconds before the two carriers used their last ounce of energy to lift the girl higher…

For the first time, Kenil caught sight of the girl that ruined his uncle's large alit furnished bed. Kenil looked at her again, feeling a certain longing within – nay, not longing, perhaps a whim, a wish, or a curiosity. There's a certain attraction between youths of the opposite sex, even children. The puerile energy – if one could call it sex – begins directly from birth, and of course is an innate thing. For any being without a strong desire to reproduce withers away, leaving only the genes of the ones who do desire to do so. He saw her face; she was truly a Dumner by appearance. Nor was that any surprise (although it may have been to young Kenil), since rarely did anyone ever see another race come by on this part of the Ascadian Isles. They weren't near Ebonhart, the trade capital of Morrowind, nor were in any of the more important routes leading to the great ancient cantons. Instead, they lived several miles inland on the peninsula east of Vivec. People, meaning of Dark Elf origin, who wished to see and counsel with the well-known Omanis usually took the route going south. And it was widely known that the Omanis accepted only native Dumner company, obviously since they had relations to Oran Dren, who was equally known to dislike outlanders with no dark skin and pointed ears. And even if outside presence weren't guaranteed a dismissal, their farmhouse was several more miles south of the prominent manors. Therefore, their existence was not known except to the other local farmers and the Omani Manor whom they sold their yearly crops to. The farmhouse was a quiet place, filled with little intervention, even by Dark Elves; so how did a Dumner female in adolescence just happen to drop by on their rural fields?

The Ascadian Isles held most of south Morrowind. However, an entirely different world – nay, an entirely different realm exists on the eastern coast. There exists in the east a place where magic realms outright. Morrowind in itself is considered, by far in comparison to the rest of known worlds, to be the most exotic lands of all. Even the swamps of Black Marsh do not hold eyes at bay when such an eye has the chance to watch something even greater. And of all those coasts on the island of Morrowind, the east remained the most enchanted of all. In all the lands of Tamriel, only East Morrowind holds the greatest amount of pure magic. Indeed, it was odd for one unaccustomed to the enchanted skills of soaring and fast pace swimming to venture to those mystic lands in the east. Only one whose traveling skills weren't limited to land could dare manage their way through. Why? Simple, one might – would – drown, for between "nubs" of great magic, lies giant distances of water, but just so water, in which many could easily transverse with a seafaring vessel, but there also lies mysterious undercurrents and the occasional underwater spike, which particularly why East Morrowind contains the greatest amount of shipwrecks, pity for all those attempts by optimistic adventurers. The best way to travel in East Morrowind, by far, is by levitation. However, the art of flying consists of extreme meditation, and extreme natural skill to possess magic, which, advantageous enough – acts as a filter for the hermetic inhabitants already there, severely limiting tourists without skill, by whom the inhabitants find most irritating. In as much as the rest of Morrowind dislike tourists, calling them outlanders, the Telvanni native to East dislike the rest of Morrowind, except for those who possessed keen magical abilities. Still, their low interests remained limited to dark elves. 

Originally, prior to the migration of the dark elves – of Telvanni origin – east Morrowind once was, impossible to believe as it is to imagine, once a land of hills and forests. How it became remains much of a great mystery. Not even the Telvanni know, or if they do, they are unwilling to let go of that secret. It is a fact, though, that East Morrowind at one point underwent great terrestrial stress. But how did one come to such a deduction?

The answer to that and all questions concerning large terrain changes such as climate, ecology, and landforms was by ancient archeological finds. In this case, it was easy. One can find many abundant evidences such as small remains of land animals, old cave dwellings on isolated islands, … But nothing compares to utter evidence of the daedric ruins. Simple in that the easiest to see was the old deadra ruins, especially those on the farthest islands east of Morrowind, near the Telvanni towers of Sadrith Mora. It was so apparent that with just small applicable science and common sense, one could deduce that the east was indeed sinking! There are numerous details to cultivate fascination, but the most incredulous of all, was the fact a part of the ruin was underwater! Unfortunately, the Telvanni themselves are indifferent to its existence, preferring to live within their highly elevated towers away from any archeologists from the rest of Tamriel in search of evidence. Perhaps it is a remnant aftermath of when the dragon broke. Certainly, such a thing that can change the color of the sun and can produce great fluctuations in magicka can also produce terrestrial stress on the lands? (Perhaps the dragon break was a result of a sudden terrestrial and magical stress polarized by the magnified effect of the three-god moons – it is a possibility. See passage below outlined in Yellow.)  It has been noted that during the era of when the Dragon Broke, there was changes in the color of the sun. One has to wonder if the color fluctuation was due to a portion of magic that inhibited or diverted lights rays. Perhaps this portion had inhabited Morrowind at that specific time, certainly as a outcrop of the enormous usage of energy needed to sink east morrowind, which then interspersed with the light rays coming from the sun, thereby giving the sun a different color? Like a great prism. 

But that is not the matter. One archeologist came to note, after several years of dangerously insecure studying among the lost daedric ruins, that occasionally when a daedra reincarnate from oblivion, a fact discovered long ago when packs of adventurers began to be missing and was found slaughtered with blood trails leading to those old ruins, that the daedra did reincarnate even on those ruins already half-submerged. But oddly, as the archeologist noted, some managed to drown! It seemed their armor made them vulnerable to the water!

In fact, in knowing this, a question could be asked. That question was a shrouded mystery: why were the daedra unable to survive underwater? One contemporary answer is: Perhaps the gods never intended the daedra ruins to be inundated after all. 

The fact that there is such a question proves beyond doubt that the daedra ruins east of Sadrith Mora were not intended to be filled with water, at least not by the ancients. Thus, east Morrowind is indeed sinking by some perilous agent restive against the wishes of the ancient Daedra and Aedra – but as the saying goes: the answer to one question begs another – And the next goes: What could have possibly altered the wishes of the eternal gods? Not even the Telvanni can give a rough estimate.


	16. A Discarded Chapter of the Family

Kenil liked his uncle Gul; he was a good man, as good, funny a man as any within Kenil's experience with men. Although sometimes, his uncle did have a tendency to often turn sayings wayward, using all sorts of euphemisms and pessimistic drudgery. Uncle Gul was a funny Dumner, no doubt. But there was a sad side to him. Arcata had once said, that in his childhood, a board had been mistakenly placed on top of him, and it fell on his head. After a while, they were afraid Uncle Gul might die, but it turned out he lived, but less so than before. He talked, but his words were slurred. His thoughts were in rambles. And for a while, everyone in Hiaalu Canton thought he had gone stupid. Thus, Uncle Gul resorted to joking when there was nothing to do. It was a habit, developed all those years when people underestimated him for not being able to speak.  
  
Granther was plain tired of him. The same way a person evades someone when he's just sick and tired and a little frustrated with his abundance of jokes. Granther, on the other hand, was a low-browed father. Not that Granther was stupid or anything, but he just kept to himself too much too long. Perhaps, Kenil thought or would like to believe, one day his mother or someone else (he doubted anything else would know about Granther though) would tell him a tale of an age when Granther was not the person he was today, sort of like one of those "Listen son, it's about high time you learned about your family" stories. But that day probably, if it existed, would probably take too long to come. Kenil would just have to keep waiting. Arcata did like telling stories, as shown with his predilection with those audacious legends of Vivec he was so fond of earlier in his youth.  
  
His mother, Arcata, was Kenil supposed, as close to a mother as he could tell. Nothing unwonted about her as far he could tell, although he did have a lack of examples to base his judgment on. One time, Kenil could remember, Arcata had mentioned about her tales prior to her deadlock marriage with Granther. That had been during a bad time, a time when Kenil wished over and over would not happen again. He remembered the words, the curses, the fights over Uncle Gul, or whatnot, it didn't matter what it was about, but the fights themselves were bad.  
  
Kenil remembered about those myths about a land where only race existed, where there was no magic (were there any magic in this world? If so, Kenil hadn't seen any. Although he did hear of it aplenty.) and everybody was reduced to simple drudgery. Every world has its same tendencies to do the same thing, and this world probably wouldn't be much different, Kenil thought.  
  
And as for that world he had referred to, one had to wonder how boring would it be for those people to live on without magic? To live a life without magic, it was unthinkable. As for this world, Kenil knew it was founded on magic. If all those stories of Vivec have done one things, it's that they've told him about the gods, both Aedra and Daedra, and how they happen to create for themselves followers. Did they not put magic within these livings beings, in hope that one day, these beings might grow to become something greater, and along with that, their magic might increase parallel? And how each being, no matter how small in weight and size, has the capacity to use magic. So is the truth, or so Kenil has been told. Each and every being uses a certain amount of magic to sustain them in life. Each uses it to heal when skin is torn. Each breathes magic in their lungs. Each can harness it. All that one needed was willpower. Magic gave hope, and perhaps that was what the people in that No-magic world didn't have for them, no hope. But then, how could one toil in the fields without hope? How could one exist and labor themselves from day in to day out without something to hope for? Perhaps they had something to hope for that was not magical. Just blind faith then, thought Kenil.  
  
Kenil's life was full of hope, because as long as there exists magical elements, there would exist a thing to live for in Kenil, something to desire. The life of a farmer was not completely cruel, one worked from day to night on one plain of field to produce results each year. One breathed an air that had fluttered through his sweat, and through the work of his sweat, and sometimes one worked while the sun began to emerge or set, knowing fully that this would happen for the rest of his life. Nay, it wasn't cruel, simply over-tasking, tepid, boring. This much he knew already. Which was why he desired to become a wizard someday, perhaps something even as lowly as a priest, as long as it was a priest-errant full of adventure. Who knows? Maybe he might become so important that he finally gets to meet great old Vivec himself, in that palace Arcata keeps frequenting in his dreams.  
  
Uncle Gul seemed to enjoy life. Oh yes, Uncle Gul, the family jester. Suddenly Kenil woke from his daydreaming existence, to hear Uncle Gul mention something while laughing.  
  
"Yup. We've got a good-looking, Telvanni princess, wouldn't you say, Kenil?" He punched Kenil in a nice funny way. It showed all the signs of a friendly companionship; it had always suggested they were pals.  
  
You didn't really have to say anything in reply to Uncle Gul. It wasn't because he was not a person of great importance, because he was. He was the greatest uncle. The only uncle. But instead because of the odd way his demeanor suggested nothing to be taken seriously. And so, nothing was and they did their best to decipher which was important and which was for a laugh. Kenil had been helping his mother find the old bed covers, the same the family had stored within the cabinets somewhere within his uncle's room before he had lapsed into a daydream. But, let's face it; his uncle's room had been a mess since the day he came here on Granther's farm.  
  
"Why don't you two stop staring and start helping?" Begged Arcata as she raveled through the old clothes to find one extra bed linen the family kept.  
  
Fortunately, although it was embarrassing, Kenil managed to find a spare set of alit linen. Suddenly, he remembered that his uncle had kept one spare of bed covers with him, it had come from those days when his uncle had been a dumpling, his father had been at an equal size, and his grandparent, may the gods protect them, had still been alive and well. And Arcata? She was doodling around somewhere at some Canton in Vivec. In those years, uncle Gul had the problem all young dumplings faced early in their years, except his hanged onto him like a moist, humid afternoon.  
  
Uncle Gul pushed Kenil still and mentioned his ingenuity with words too low to be heard by anyone other than Kenil. But the tense or rather the smirk behind it could be deduced further away, yet.  
  
"A' hem!" A guttural sound emanated from Arcata's throat. Uncle Gul stiffened with sarcasm as if caught stealing candy, or some other naughty task. "Well, you're no use! Why don't you go back to the yard and see if you can fix what the storm did?"  
  
Yes, sir! Most gracious, sir. Gul seemed to say. His uncle immediately made way for the door, with mock military alertness, something he had seen in parades on the streets of Ebonhart. When he got there, he looked back at Kenil with an outrageous stance. It was similar and mimicking the chicken posture, with the elbow stuck out on either side, and the hands bent back meeting at the inner chest. Except in the position his uncle showed, they seemed to be holding a baby, with each hand holding an inward head. There was a ridiculous grin as he glanced at Kenil and the girl appraisingly.  
  
Before long, he had backed out of the room and was on his way to fix the storm's damage, beaming an elegant fool's smile. 


End file.
